


Markings of a Life

by sterekhalinsk



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Light Angst, M/M, Mage Stiles Stilinski, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Minor Cora Hale/Lydia Martin, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Multi, Slow Build, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tattooed Stiles, True Alpha Scott McCall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-12 11:12:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4477130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterekhalinsk/pseuds/sterekhalinsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since he was a kid, Stiles always had a pulling towards magic. He would rip the tablecloths from underneath his parents plates, he'd read and watch everything Harry Potter, he'd chant spells found off the internet in the halls and his parents would laugh. It was an innocent practice. But now, years later, Stiles has a problem. A problem that involves lying about his practices in the face of a werewolf and expecting to be believed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, I haven't posted anything on here in over a year, but I've gotten back into the swing of writing again. This fic should have about 20 chapters, 25 at most, and since I have a few chapters written and the rest mostly thought out, I should post every other week.

Stiles runs his lanky fingers through wet locks of hair and takes a deep breath, "I can explain."

He looks up at Scott, who stares at him as if he were a stranger. Its not entirely false, as his body is something completely unfamiliar to his friend. He drops the pretense of innocence and doesn't bother to hide his body. He doesn't feel naked, so he doesn't bother acting like he does.

Scott looks him up and down one more time before locking on his face, determination set in the form of crossed arms and straight legs. Stiles swallows his fear of rejection and turns around slowly, wet dirt seeping between his toes. He holds his arms up and stares at the trees, the moon, the plants lining the lake in front of him, anything but at the judgmental eyes that await him when he turns around again.

When he does, it's with his arms down at his sides and his head held high. He's worked so hard to be okay with himself and the black tattoos that line his entire body. They are a part of him and he wouldn't give them up for anything in the world. The only thing that instills the tiniest bit of bother in him is that Scott will read into what he is and hate him.

"What is it all?" Scott questions, and Stiles watches as his eyes trace along the thick lines of ink that surround his torso.

To make light of the situation, Stiles scoffs then sings, "Do you believe in magic?"

Scott's straight face falls, his lips quirking up at the edges. "Stiles, I'm serious. What do they all mean?"

Sighing, Stiles sits down on the ground, patting the dirt beside him. Scott sits with hesitation, eyes locking on the lake. Stiles doesn't mind that he can't look him in the eye, it only makes things easier on him, "Scott, I hope you believe in magic, because I am a blood born mage."

"What-"

"Jeez, Scott. It means I can reenact Matilda if I wanted to, okay? I've been learning magic since you were bitten and the tattoos have been appearing ever since." Stiles mutters, uneasily running his fingers over the flower that sprouts right over his elbow.

Scott looks at him again, taking in the swirls and the flowers and patterns and animals that cover Stiles' body. Stiles knows what questions come next, and he doesn't know how he should go about answering them. Does the sheriff know? No, of course not. Why did he start? He's always had a calling for it, even before the age of fifteen. Is that why he always wears layers on layers of clothes? Yes, also why he never publicly takes any layer off. Does anyone know at all? Deaton's the one who's been training him recently, so.

When Scott finally pauses his questions, Stiles knows which is the last one. Scott hesitates, but Stiles already sees his lip twitch so he blurts out, "I don't know! I don't know why Derek's triskele is on my back right where his is, and I don't want to find out."

That's where he lies. He's not sure if Scott believes him, he might never find out, but for now it will have to work. Scott doesn't say anything, and he's not sure whether that's comforting or daunting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott spends some quality time with Stiles as he slowly adapts to the mixture of his personal and extra personal life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will start to pick up a bit in the following chapters, so stay tuned and make sure to leave lots of love <3 Contact me on [ tumblr](http://sterekhalinsk.tumblr.com/) for anything.

Stiles doesn't know how to act knowing Scott doesn't care for what he is and does. He takes Scott to the lake more often than not in the following weeks, swimming with him and talking about pack matters. He lifts Scott up in the air for fun, and he resorts to turning him into a chipmunk before Scott seems to be thoroughly amused. When he turns Scott back with a reversal spell, he's tackled to the floor in a hug.

 

"He-hey man. I'm awesome, I know." Stiles babbles, ruffling up Scott's hair.

 

Scott pulls away cringing, "Eh, sorry man. Forgot we're naked."

 

Stiles climbs to his feet and wipes the dirt off his backside, "It's fine. I don't feel naked, you don't feel naked."

 

They get dressed facing different directions though, and conversation ceases as they do so. Scott makes no effort to hide his tattoo, wearing a simple red tee and Stiles turns his head away as he zips his sweater up, envious of his bodily freedom. Stiles remembers loving tattoos as a kid, wanting to get so many as an adult but knowing his fear of needles would never allow him to. And now, having them without the painful procedure to get them, he hides them underneath flannels and baggy sweaters.

 

"Hey Scott..." Stiles mumbles, as he slip on his shoes.

 

Scott looks at him with undivided attention, recognizing the feeble tone Stiles uses when he's curious, "How did you find me that day? I always put up a five sense seal, you shouldn't of had been able to even smell me."

 

"Well, I wasn't looking for you. I was jogging, and then I saw a naked dude with the triskele. I thought, 'that can't be Derek, he's too small to be Derek. And he has other tattoos.' Then you turned around and had my best friend's face, so I nearly flipped out but then I caught your scent and it pieced together then."

 

They walk towards the jeep while Stiles goes over the information. Its been months since he's made a mistake so stupid, and he wonders just where it was. He remembers Deaton saying that the spell wears off after exposure to water, right as your last toe begins to prune, but he'd completely forgotten. And now that he thinks about it, his hands were pruney, not that he thought about checking his toes. He rolls his eyes at his own idiocy. Then again, he'd never thought he'd be able to hide the tattoos forever.

 

Its only luck that they haven't travelled past his collarbones, forearms and ankles. It'd started out as light swirls no more than a few inches all around, having a small shine when in use, but they're grown in size and brightness as he's gained knowledge and power. Not to mention the darkness of the ink, going from a pale grey to a charcoal black.

 

His use of magic has kept him and his pack alive more times than he can count. And while Stiles will be the last to admit that while he's acting innocent and defenseless in the face of danger he's using magic, it doesn't make it any less true. He just brushes it off as the pack being too distracted by the act of ripping someone's throat out to notice his body transforming into the glowing form of his spark. He didn't exactly expect anyone to find out the way Scott has, but then there isn't a manual as to how to break the news that you're a mage to your friends.

 

When they finally reach Stiles' jeep, the ride to his house is a short and quiet one. There's a pit in his stomach that settled and hasn't left since Scott called out his name at the lake a few weeks back. He's scared. Since the first time he encountered a wolf, his heart feels like its pounding out of his chest, his palms growing sweaty and his knees straining against the urge to buckle under pressure. He's managed to hide everything about the art that keeps him sane for the past five years and one mess up with maintaining a five sense seal sends its all barreling down into a giant pile of avoidance and deception.

 

When they park the jeep, Stiles notices that the sheriff's car isn't in the driveway. Scott mentions it and Stiles simply waves it off as him having been called in early for work. Its been happening more often than not, because two deputies quit the month before. Inside the house, Stiles sees how Scott tries to take in his surroundings like its some place new. He breathes in deeply and his eyes dart left and right, scanning everything. They falter every here and there, where there are symbols carved into the walls and floors, and Stiles knows Scott is smart enough to assume they are for protection purposes.

 

In Stiles' room, Scott finally takes in his hobbies for what they are. Stiles didn't randomly start growing exotic greenery and perennials and storing them in little glass jars labeled with their Gaelic names for fun. His collection of books written in different languages didn't begin to expand in honor of classic literature. No, he watched his own life and that of his father's flash before his eyes and he decided that it wouldn't happen again.

 

"So, you're a... What exactly are you?" Scott muses, situating himself on the far corner or Stiles' bed, with his back to the wall and a pillow on his lap.

 

Stiles takes a seat on his office chair and rolls his way to the bed, "I am a mage. There's nothing else to call it really. A guy that does magic. I'm not an emissary nor a druid, let along both. Still painfully human.”

 

Scott seems sated for a while, staring off into space while Stiles rolls around his room, gathering a book and a jar full of herbs. Before Scott can gain enough interest to ask, Stiles informs, "Homework. Deaton gives me a weekly quota of skill to meet. If I don't, he doesn't teach me anything the next week and just has me reorganize everything and go over what I already know a thousand more times."

 

Scott laughs at that, knowing just how impatient Stiles is, "Wow, seems like you're living the life."

 

Stiles mimics him, then mutters, "Oh, shut up, you ball of fur."

 

He repeats things he knows, basic things like telekinesis and levitation. He doesn’t do much else around Scott, to make him feel included in his life and all. He won’t do anything new, or that he hasn’t mastered, and its all fine because Scott can’t tell the difference. The last thing that Stiles would want to do now that he knows is make Scott think he isn’t comfortable around him. And he is, he just doesn’t feel comfortable exposing the barest side of him just yet.

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning when Stiles' alarm goes off, he scrambles around in his bed and jolts up with his phone in hand. The device is cold to the touch but grows warmer as he wanders about the house in morning ritual. He sets out his clothes for the day, takes a leak, brushes his teeth, makes breakfast then begrudgingly finds his way back into his bathroom to take a shower.

 

Stepping into the supernatural light alongside his friends has made him quite aware of a lot of things. Most mythical creatures are in fact, not mythical. A lot more happens at the core of the earth than scientists have discovered. And the bottom of the ocean is a pretty mystical place that will never be breached without use of magic. Its what he doesn't know that chews him out.

 

The previous night had him tossing and turning like he’d done the first few weeks after awakening his spark. Back then he felt restless and physically exhausted, unable to sleep at a logical time and crashing at five in the afternoon after his third cup of coffee. Now, he’d lay awake with jitters, hiding underneath his covers with his mind conscious of the one thing that makes him feel queasy. The unknown. It suddenly came crashing to him that he can hide his tattoos and powers, but the truth eventually comes to light. He can’t control how people choose to react, and there's nothing left to do now but embrace the Saturday morning light and make his way over to Deaton's.

 

When he parks his car in the lot he spots Scott's dirt bike in the back. He hops out of the blue death trap and makes his way over to the bike, setting his hand on the warm throttle. Stiles shuts his eyes, chanting words under his breath until his hand pulses and he senses that Scott has been there for hours. A frown sets lightly on his face, and he drags his feet to the front entrance instead of going in through the back like usual. The door chimes as he enters and Deaton comes to the desk, motioning Stiles to follow him.

 

Stiles feels a buzz as he crosses the line of mountain ash for the infinite time, folding his arms as he's led into the backroom. That's where Scott is, lifting up a bag a dog kibble and pouring some into a dozen bowls. He looks up at Stiles, accidentally spilling a whole bunch of the tiny clumps of processed food. Stiles catches it mid air, lifting it up and into the bowls with a few determined flicks of his fingertips and twitches of his lips. Scott sets the bag down, running a hand through his hair sheepishly, mumbling a small, "Sorry."

 

Deaton remains silent and Stiles waves at Scott before heading into the room where his training takes place. Its sealed off from everyone who doesn't know how to access it, including Scott. Deaton picks up an old book, sewn at the edges with thick thread, "I picked up distress coming off you in waves; did minor digging and came to the conclusion that something as monumental as your best friend finding out about your life's work is what's troubling you. Now, since he found out, I figured it wouldn't hurt if he works while you train."

 

Stiles shrugs and settles down on the floor with the book in his lap. With a hand over the leather cover, he shuts his eyes and allows his newest memories to come through. It's where Deaton taught him to store everything. The conscious part of the brain is too focused with new, time consuming things, while the subconscious has everything that comes naturally, habitual things. There’s a mixture in between where all the tiny unpracticed things slip away to and are never seen again.

 

Things like foreign languages, "The book is written in Portuguese." Deaton calls out. Stiles' focus breaks long enough for him to complain mildly. He's good at Latin, Spanish, Italian, but Portuguese and French aren't his strong suit.

 

He shuts his eyes tightly, placing both hands on the leather cover and focuses on clearing his mind. Its a task he finds rather annoying, but to then float around in a state of mind where everything he's ever learned just wanders about makes the work a-okay. When he finally accesses the section that knows a ton of garbled words, he flips to the page that Deaton instructs him to read.

 

His fingers skim over the ink written information, smiling at the feel of a drawing before opening his eyes. They're in their newfound natural state, an eerie grey color with white and black specks.His senses mellow out as his vision gets clearer and more complicated. Stiles likes to call it hypervision, because colors are just a shade brighter and everything else becomes more detailed.

 

The book that Deaton has given him isn't like usual, there aren’t any kind of instructions, and the book itself isn't a book, but a journal of a witch dating back to 1952 with spells scattered between tales of survival. Deaton doesn't want him to learn any spells or rituals, he wants to give him scenarios, he wants to give him insight on the things he will go through as a person with power.

 

He only ever does this when he wants Stiles to go out in the field, which hasn't been since he was eighteen, two years ago. Stiles doesn't let himself get too excited, making sure to keep a straight face as his perfect eyesight falters. He reads about how the witch was drawn in by a siren, and how she believed she fell in love with her. She was wrong, and eventually broke away from the enchanted state by breaking her own wrist. There's another entry two years later where she scribbles down her experience with being stuck in a parallel universe created by her own faulty spell. Her writing being much more sloppier than before with her badly healed hand.

 

It shows how much can go wrong under pressure or distraction, and that's what Deaton is trying to get Stiles to understand. Stiles eases out of his multilingual subconscious and let's himself adapt to balanced environment sensitivity before facing Deaton.

 

"As you can see Stiles, the adventures of a magical being aren't exactly the most... fun." Deaton drones, and a straight expression settling itself on Stiles' face.

 

"I knew that much the moment I signed up for this." He states, climbing to his feet and dusting himself off.

 

Deaton watches him, waits until he's set his ground and folds his arms before saying, "Good. Then stay focused. You're the only mage Beacon Hills has seen since the eighteen hundredths, and it needs you to keep it balanced. Although it would be better if no one were to find out, you can't control who does and what it leads to. And if there's one thing you have learned as a mage, its that you can't afford worry about what you can't control."

 

Stiles swallows his spit and bows his head, nodding at the white floor before him. But he's not listening, no. In his mind he's figuring out how to make sure no one in town learns of his capabilities, that no one out of town hears of his name.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles takes on a deal with Cora and Lydia in exchange for a job, meanwhile discovering his bond to Derek is stronger than he knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a bit longer than I expected to edit this ahhh sorry.

Stiles leaves Deaton's at the same time as always, another book in hand and another lesson engraved in his mind. The only difference is that these days he waves at his best friend on the way out the door. His tattoos still glow orange from the remaining buzz of magic as he makes his way to the jeep, his footsteps are unusually rushed, but he doesn’t question why. When he gets in his car, he pulls out of the parking lot and drives away at a speed on the verge of being illegal. But with a pulling this strong, the last thing he needs is to be pulled over by Parrish or his dad.

His instincts leads him to where he was nearly a month ago, one of the deepest dirt roads in the preserve, ending in garbles of gigantic century old roots. Stiles hops out of the Jeep, shutting the door lightly and without hesitation he peels off his clothes before going into the clearing just after the dead end. The lake hidden there invites him to dive straight into the cold water.

With the fall weather, the sun is setting early, casting shadows over Stiles' body. He places his hands on his stomach and mutters a couple of words under his breath. There's a thrill that runs through him; he's protected from sight, sound, smell, feel and taste, not that people go licking around but it’s better to be safe.

The water is cold when he steps in, slowly submerging himself until he can see underneath the milky green lake.He floats and stares up at the sky after padding around for a while, as clouds distort and reshape themselves. He figures he should be like that too, susceptible to change. And things haven’t changed much, now that he thinks of it.

He still goes to Deaton for new information and a link to the evil preying on his town. He plays video games with Scott every other night when they aren’t too tired. He goes to the library every Saturday with Allison and Lydia, in what they call their human book club and research everything they can get their hands on. He still lets Cora drag him to the gym twice a month, where she forces him to exercise his body and not his brain.

But what he’s been going through isn’t change; acceptance is what it is. His relationship with everyone who knows of his prowess (an astounding amount of two people) has remained the same. The only thing that would produce change in his life is if someone were to react negatively towards their findings of him. He isn’t facing his fears of the unknown and its repercussions of change, he’s being a coward and hiding behind the stability of acceptance.

The simple truth bites him in the ass, and he sighs, shutting his eyes and closing out the thoughts of all the people that could change. When he opens them again, he’s greeted with black skies and shining stars. He starts to flail then, cursing all the way back to the makeshift dock. He pulls on his clothes, and he hopes the woods don’t mind his incessant stream of curses.

He takes a good long look at the moon once he situates his butt in the driver’s seat and his pruney fingers curl around the steering wheel. He sneers his contempt at the half full moon and he makes a connection that he should've made a long time ago. The moon in its full phase resemble the opposite of his natural eyes. While the moon is a light surrounded by an unending darkness, his eyes are a light encasing a black abyss in the centre. He sighs and backs out the dead end; the moon doesn’t seem to mind constant change.

When he pulls into the driveway and tiptoes into the house with damp hair and his shoes hanging off his fingertips, his dad question why, the same way he questions why his father is drinking straight from a bottle of whiskey. So Stiles sighs, and turns to walk down the four steps he’d gotten up. He takes in the layout of the table when he gets to it, hesitant to sink down into the chair.

Bills. Bills. Comparison of bills. Checks. Comparison of checks. Comparison of bills to checks. Everything seems fine, until his father slides over a pamphlet for grave headstones, the cheapest one costing about four thousand. Stiles gets it then. A lack of money isn’t the problem, they’ve always found how to scrape by, but it was really bad when his mom died. The grave and funeral took most of their savings in one go, and they didn’t have enough for a headstone.

They planted a tree instead, a small one allowed by the people who run the cemetery, and Stiles remembers carving his moms initials into the bark. The tree now is bigger, about four feet tall, but he knows his mom deserves the headstone, some kind of identification and validity to hold onto.

“It’s the one thing I want to do before I go out son. And I don’t want to leave you with any expense other than the house.” His dad says, and it’s painful to hear him talk about death.

Stiles gets a bit teary eyed thinking about it, but he nods, “Okay.”

His dad places a comforting hand on his forearms and he intends to lean into the touch when he realises the action has ridden up his sleeve. He jerks away from the touch, pulling his sleeve down to cover his tattoos. He doesn’t think his dad saw anything, but he says goodnight and heads to his room before he can be questioned. He doesn’t want to know what his dad knows and what he doesn’t.

He knows the basics of what occurs in Beacon Hills. He knows that the Hale's were once the guardian family of the town and that things have been whacky with only Derek, Peter, and Cora left. He just doesn't know that his son is now who keeps balance with spells and ancient runes carved in trees and houses scattered around the territory. He doesn't know that on that one science trip out of state, Scott was bitten by a pack of rogues and they learned a hell of a lot about regeneration.

He doesn't know why the rogues returned a month later to attack Scott while he was sleeping over at Stiles' place. He knows they didn't get in more than a few scratches before Scott passed out and Derek's pack (consisting of just Erica, Boyd, Cora and Isaac at the time) appeared. He knows Stiles remembers two of the rogue's having claws against his throat and his father's, and while the pack fought off the others, Derek had to choose between saving the boy or the man.

He knows that Derek chose Stiles, slashing the throat of the werewolf holding him captive while Stiles watched his father's blood spill. He knows Stiles screamed until he couldn't and tried his hardest to claw his way out of Derek's arms to see him. He doesn’t know Derek had to knock him out. He doesn’t know that the next morning Stiles awoke with black swirls on his back while he slept soundly on the couch.

Stiles doesn't know if the sheriff learned about the Hale's before or after the attack, but at the very least he has an idea why Stiles still hangs around Derek and his pack. At first it was in gratitude, but then he and Scott slowly eased their way into the small, tight knit family. Then came Allison, with her treaty of peace between Argents and Hales, nearly a year later. After her came Lydia and Jackson; Jackson in search of the bite and a place in the pack while Lydia came after the third body she’d found that month alone.

Stiles hops into his bed and tries to avoid thinking about that night, but it's all he ever thinks about really. He manages to fall asleep rather quickly considering.

 

* * *

 

 

Sadly he is awoken in the same manner. His breath smells foul when he opens his mouth to yawn, dried spit clinging to his face and lips. When he looks around for the source of his disturbance, he sees his dad is sitting at the edge of his bed, clutching a mug of coffee. It instantly clears any drowsiness Stiles can’t afford to have. He watches his dad watch him as he sits up carefully, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders without exposing any part of his arm above his wrist, "Hey, dad."

The sheriff is already dressed for work, a pained look on his face as he mutters, “Hey eh, I hope I didn’t offend you last night, or upset you.”

Stiles choses to stare at the steam floating up above his father’s mug than respond. His father looks away guiltily, taking a few sips of coffee before clearing his throat, “I just wanna know you’re not upset.”

Stiles deflates a few inches in relief, clutching to his covers, "Its fine dad, I’m okay and you’re okay.”

His dad nods tensely, observing Stiles' room with a critical eye. As much as he loves his dad’s presence, he doesn't want to be asked about the plants in his room and outside his window, or the jars storing them with foreign words. Or worse, if his dad were to pick up one of the books randomly situated on his floor and ask why the hell Stiles is reading it. He feels a drop of sweat run down his forehead and cringes. He’d rather choke on his tongue than have his father find out his involvement in the supernatural.

He watches his dad’s eyes drift from his posters to him, his face taking a slight downdrift. He’s being analyzed and he knows it. "Say, Stiles, aren't you hot?"

Stiles tries to control his face, spitting out, "What, no, I'm fine."

The sheriff squints his eyes, "Stiles, you're sweating. Just take off the covers."

The sheriff is in the middle of maneuvering himself to rip off Stiles' covers when his son shouts, "I'm naked!"

His eyebrows shoot up and he gets to his feet in record time. He nearly trips over a jar of Valerian on his journey to the door, and when he gets to it, he turns back with an ugly expression, "Sorry, I thought you were hiding something, you technically are, um... next time, can you warn your old man?" Stiles breathes out a puff of dry laughter as his door shuts, throwing off the covers and dashing to the bathroom.

The last thing he does before leaving the bathroom, still shockingly naked, is splash a ton of water on his face. Today, routine isn't followed. He avoids leaving his room at all costs, for as long as possible; filtering through his clothes and the journal from the clinic, he stays clear of the door. He emerges when there's a distinctive click tick tick click of the door locking, clad in black skinny jeans, a blue and green flannel with a vest and some beat up leather boots.

His fingers linger over his doorknob, but there's no going back. Well, there is, he can rip off his clothes, jump into bed and ignore the world, but no. He leaves the house before he can stop himsel and he goes over to Lydia’s. He calls when he pulls into the driveway and it isn’t long before he gets the clear to come in. He has a key, everyone has keys to each other’s houses, but he learned his lesson a few months back when he came in without warning and was greeted with the sight of Cora between her legs. That had been horrific in the best of ways.

Cora is sitting sheepishly on Lydia’s office chair, her lips bruised a pink red color, “Stilinski.” She says.

“Hale.” He acknowledges.

She is entirely comfortable in underwear alone, while Lydia threw on the black shirt Cora had probably been wearing when she came over. He walks over to her where she sits on her bed and wraps his arms around her shoulders, planting a greeting kiss on her cheek.

He cringes when he pulls away and takes in the spread clothes on the floor and the extremely rumpled sheets and the flush that still adorns Lydia’s cheeks, “Guys, it is seriously too early in the morning or you to have this room stinking of sex already.”

Cora’s laugh is ironically a series of bark like sounds and really loud gasps, “Dude, it’s one. In the afternoon.”

“I rest my case you… you nasty children.” He insists, kicking off his shoes and settling himself on the edge of Lydia’s bed. Cora rolls to him to deliver a less than friendly punch; a reminder that she is in fact related to Derek Hale. Lydia simply looks amused.

Stiles crosses his legs and folds his hands, then proceeds to glare at Cora, “Do you mind if I speak to Lydia in private?”

Cora shrugs and leaves the room, throwing her hands up in the air because it isn’t like she won’t be able to hear from three or four rooms away. Whatever lets the humans sleep at night she supposes, settling onto the kitchen stool.

Inside the room, Stiles says, “I need your help you sorcerer of sociability and communication. To get a job, because I suck at talking and stuff.”

Lydia leans forward then, resting her hand on his shoulder, “I can get you interviews, you need to get the jobs.” She supplies, then leans back against her headboard.

Before Stiles can open his mouth to say ‘deal’, Cora barges in, “Under one condition!” She interjects, “You go to the gym with me three times a week before you get a call back.”

His eyes nearly bulge out of his hand and his head shakes on its own accord, “No way, you must be out of your mind.”

She jumps onto the bed and sits in front of him, on Lydia’s outstretched legs, “Think about it. After you get your job, you’ll be too busy between that, the volunteering at the clinic and research day. Nevermind the fact that Isaac randomly picks you up in Derek’s suv to go try out new foods at three in the morning. Just give me three days a week before your freedom is over and then I’ll drag you to the gym just once a month. It won’t take more than two weeks for you to find a job anyways.”

“Do you promise not to yell at me when I fall after six push ups?” He bargains, a hopeful look etching its way onto his face.

“Deal.” She agrees, because she never promised she wouldn’t yell at him to do more than ten sit ups.They shake on it and Lydia has to refrain from rolling her eyes at how dorky they are together.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles nerves are shaken. He does everything to calm down; pills, meditation, sleep (endless sleep) but he still finds himself trembling. He didn't realize it when it had first started, had waved it off as the vibrating of his phone. But now they wrack his entire body and he struggles to comprehend why. Allison had initiated a gathering at her house for, thanksgiving (over a month away) and the thought of everyone’s families coming together bugged him a bit, but that wasn't it.

He's sitting in the middle of the forest now, after having hauled his body out of the cold water and sticking his limbs through holes of dirt covered clothes. The tree he's leaning on scratches his back uncomfortably and his thighs bounce into the sharp ends of broken twigs again and again. He can't stop the inner vibrations that cause them though, and he's left needing and wanting a single fluid that can stop his lack of control.

His body wants so badly to jump right back into the water, where he feels most comfortable, but Stiles knows something is terribly wrong and Deaton is the only one who can fix it. He doesn’t know how long he sits there at loss of bodily autonomy; he feels blood trickling down his right thigh, twigs having torn through his jeans and he struggles to bite in a sob. Suddenly Derek is in front of him, shaking his shoulders and keeping him centred.

He calms down a bit, but his body doesn't and he only has enough willpower to repeat, "D," underneath his breath.

Derek seems to get it, lifting him up and out of the preserve. There's an animalistic scream that rips through him when Derek drops him into the passengers seat, and he's pretty sure it's because of the skin contact he already misses without having actually received. It might also be his cut thigh rubbing uncomfortably against warm leather. He feels so close to blacking out but every time his eyes flutter shut, his body jolts and there's Derek's hand hot over his knee. He can feel the burning of his flesh through his jeans, and he wants it to continue and stop all at once.

He wonders briefly if this is what Erica felt like every time she had a seizure, a detachment from the body but painful awareness in the mind, but his thinking stops entirely each time Derek's steady hand returns. He feels the car halt, and he nearly cries out from the deprivation of Derek's touch. He can't complain much when soon enough those arms are shoved behind his back and underneath his knees and he's picked up like a doll.

He’s dumped onto a metallic table no more than a minute later, where liquid is forced down his throat, Derek's hands holding open his jaw. The second rationality returns to him, the first thing he realizes is that Derek is gone with no trace of him other than the goosebumps on Stiles' skin. Deaton helps him sit up and he wonders how and why Derek found him. Deaton hands him a mug of the same liquid, except it burns his palms, but it is a gladly welcome distraction.

 

He doesn’t realize how out of it he was until he becomes aware of the thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his lack of shoes. When the mug is down by half, he also realizes that the reason Derek is no longer there is because of the mountain ash surrounding the back room. Deaton must have broken it, but its presence is probably chilling to a werewolf’s skin. He slowly draws his attention to Deaton, who leans against the counter and states, “Stiles, I’m going to ask you some questions.”

Stiles nods along, taking sips of the worm fluid every here and then. He needs to make sure to ask what it’s made of, because nothing has every calmed him so strongly before. Perhaps the soft ringing of his mother singing to him before bedtime, but he doesn’t remember much of the gentle melodies.

“When did this start, this disruption of your nervous system, I mean?” Deaton asks, and Stiles closes his eyes, in hopes of accessing his subconscious, but Deaton grabs his wrists and shakes him before he can, saying he’s too weak to do that.

Stiles thinks harder, remembers the first tremors starting the day Allison called him, but she can’t be the cause of this, “The lake,” he spit out instead of the doubts in his friend.

“Last week maybe.” He adds, ticking off the days in his head.

Deaton thinks about it for a second, then he leaves the room and come back a minute later with a pile of papers in his hands. He dumps them in front of Stiles who sifts through newspapers and articles and printed pages from journals. Stiles pauses at the middle, recognizes the handwriting and the usage of words.

The witch’s journal he read that day. The one who broke her wrist after falling under the enchantment of a siren. He looks up at Deaton then, then continues to sift through papers. There are cases of missing people, others whose bodies were found face down, both new and old. Stiles drops everything without meaning to, “I’m not enchanted by a siren are I?”

Deaton’s face contorts somewhere between sorrow and pain, “But I haven’t even seen a damn siren. This is insane!”

“Think, Stiles. A siren wouldn’t come at you directly, especially after seeing the branding you have. It was the water itself, and you stepped right into it.” He says, and with a pitying look he bends down to pick up the fallen papers.

Stiles scans them one more time, noticing the headlines in newspapers. Nearly all the missing people were linked to military operations, and most recent cases are of deputies from the station. Stiles sucks in a deep breath and gets his shit together mentally before making an effort to dash out. He nearly falls on his face, upon seeing Derek sitting in one of the chairs up front. His head snaps up and he whiffs at Deaton who places a hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Be careful Stiles. And I’ll find a way to break the link to the siren.” Deaton says, and Stiles pulls away with a nod, crossing the mountain ash barrier.

He hears more than see’s Deaton walk back, and he takes that as his cue to outstretch his hand and help Derek up. Derek takes his hand after glancing at it for a second, and the same burst of energy is present, a calming sense of connection that breaks when Derek gets to his feet. He asks if Stiles is okay as they walk to the car, and Stiles does nothing but nod and insist that he takes him to the Sheriff’s department instead of home.

Stiles forgets about the jeeps existence while they drive, but the way his fingertips thrum against his thigh are a constant reminder that he needs to find his way out of the enchantment as fast as possible. He wonders briefly if the water had any effect of Scott or if his wolflihood doesn’t allow it. Derek pulls up to the station, and by then Stiles can feel his bones rattle. It’s all subtle and small movement though, nothing but his hands show sign of his predicament. Before he can get out the car, Derek grasps his wrist and it isn’t long before Stiles can see the dark veins protruding from Derek’s arm in pulses.

“Thank you.” He mumbles, and Derek drives off without a goodbye before Stiles can walk through the door. He calms his craving for Derek’s skin against his own as he stalks up to the front desk, shaking hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' power grows and his appearance spirals out of control. He is exposed to Allison less dramatically than Scott was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welll shiiiiit, this is a lot.

The lady behind the desk smiles at him and asks if he’s doing okay, to which he replies with a nod and a tired ‘yeah, I’m good, thank you.’ He’s always hated small talk, but he realizes it is a necessary evil in surviving modern society. He asks to see his dad, then he’s asked a why, and when he replies ‘personal things, you know,’ he’s allowed to proceed with only slight skepticism. The halls and deputies he walks by are all familiar to him, surroundings from his childhood.

The sheriff raises his eyebrows in question when Stiles walks into his office, having forgotten to knock.

“I can’t just visit my dad at his job?” He mumbles, sitting in the chair in front of his father. He supposes his shaking doesn’t serve to reassure the sheriff of his innocence, “Okay fine, I need the keys to the file room.”

His dad squints his eyes and folds his arms protectively, “For what?”

Stiles knows the keys are there nestled in his shirt pocket, but he isn’t about to tackle his father to the ground to get them. He gnaws at the side of his thumb instead, making sure to keep eye contact. Its the little things that have been drilled into his father’s head, checkpoints for little weaknesses, giveaways of guilt.

Stiles sits upright in the chair, adjusting the collar of his hoodie as he thinks of an answer; the truth being an option. So is sparing the complete details, and that’s always Stiles’ go to. He clears his throat and says, “The two deputies didn’t quit dad, they were enchanted by sirens or something and it isn’t long before their bodies start appearing in bags. I need to help stop that.”

His father sighs, “Stiles, it isn’t something you need to get involved in. Next thing you know, you’re enchanted too or something. What you need is to keep your human ass safe from these siren things… which are?”

Stiles nearly chokes on how accurate his dad’s pessimistic views can be.

“Dad, I Just do research, everything physical is handed to the supernatural half of the pack, I swear. But they’re water creatures. They lure people in with pretty melodies and their perfect hair.” He gets desperate then, fidgeting in his seat and propping a leg up on the chair.

Stiles thanks his dad for not having asked about him being wet the other night. He hopes he doesn’t remember but he can almost see the wheels churning in the sheriff’s head. But before he can open his mouth to get confirmation of the theory, there’s a convenient knock on the door, and his eyes flicker from it to Stiles, “No.”

A deputy walks in with a folder in his hands, ignoring Stiles’ presence as he sits beside him and drops the file onto the table. His brown hair flops onto his face as he settles into the chair, making no intentions to fix it. Stiles turns to him, observing his brisk and controlled movements, ‘He’s next.’ He thinks, just as the deputy says, “I’d like to give in my two week notice, and my resignation papers.”

But this guy doesn’t shake, he doesn’t move at all. He barely blinks, like a robot.

The sheriff sighs doing a double take at something behind Stiles, and then the room gets real quiet, “Hold that thought deputy. Stiles, what is that on the back of your neck?” He asks, pointing towards the certificate frame he has on the filing cabinet. It gleams a reflection.

Stiles turns skeptically, in a way that catches the black ink crawling up his neck in swirls. He jumps from his seat, clamping his hand to the back of his head. Looking down at his other hand, there is a protection rune carved in black, starting to glow orange. He leaves the office running before his father can question him, in the direction of the filing room. The sheriff doesn’t get up because he has to deal with the deputy, and Stiles takes advantage of his father’s responsibilities.

He keeps looking back as he walks to the file room, pulling his hood over his head and avoiding the camera’s at each corner. When he gets there, he freezes at the door cautious to stay hidden. There’s a man in there, sifting through papers and with the same mechanical movements as the deputy he slams the drawers shut. It’s a good minute before the final drawer is shut and has a single folder in his hand, overflowing with papers.

Stiles is stuck next to the door when the guy walks out, and Stiles panics, mumbling a paralyzation spell and pressing his palm against the guy’s forehead. He grabs the file in the guy’s hands and knocks his body into the room before shutting the door. The guy stares at Stiles with a blank face, head lolling to the side after a second.

Stiles ignores the creepy sensation in his gut, setting the folder atop a table and filtering through the documents. His eyes light at their contents. Headline after headline and death date after death date. Stiles shoves the files under his hoodie, crouching down beside the guy in all black. Stiles presses two fingers underneath the guy’s chin and he awakens from his restraints.

“Whats the last thing you remember?” Stiles asks.

The guy starts to panic, thrashing around until Stiles punches him, “Who sent you here?”

His eyes begin to pool, “I-I don’t know man. I was on a fishing trip with one of my buddies who’s a deputy, and then a pretty lady appeared, and… and I don’t know!”

Stiles sighs, “It’s okay, you didn’t do anything.”

He splutters, “Wh- What?” As Stiles rests his palm on the guys forehead again, knocking him out without the addition of paralysis.

When he looks at his hands again, there’s blood he doesn’t remember drawing. He knows he didn’t do it. They still have their magic glow, now tinged red in places. He searches the guy’s body until he feels the gun wound in his side and a gun tucked in his waist. This isn’t his doing. He walks out of the room and stalks the halls quietly. There’s blood he hadn’t noticed before, in drips and footprints and drags of bodies.

‘If today I have to take someone out then so be it,’ He thinks, turning out of the corridor and back into the lobby, where the lady he greeted at the desk has a bullet in her side and there are three others on the ground, bleeding and groaning. Stiles turns into a sprint to his dad’s office, where the deputy is nowhere to be seen, and his dad is sitting at his desk safely. He lifts a hand to his chest in relief, smearing blood onto his hoodie.

His dad looks at his bloody, inked hands and his face turns red in rage, “Stiles, what the hell did you do?!”

When Stiles looks at his reflection, his entire face is covered in glowing patterns and it takes all he has to not turn and run. Instead, he looks at his father and tells him to forget what he’d just seen. He yells it with conviction like Deaton tells him to, but it doesn’t work, it never has. It doesn’t work. It just angers the sheriff and he grabs Stiles’ shoulders and shakes them, “Stiles do you think this is some joke?!”

Stiles says it again, screams it as tears begin to roll down his face, and this time his dad lets him go, turning around and wandering off to his desk as if nothing had happened. Stiles runs then, but with the sensibility to snatch the tape to the cameras. He grabs the phone from the desk and calls for an ambulance before running straight out of there and into his jeep. He doesn’t stick around for more than a minute after the wounded get carried out, and he curses himself for not having attempted to heal them.

When he gets home, he drops the bloody files onto his bed and trudges into the bathroom. His body tells a story as he peels his clothes from his body, ink shifting around in graceful patterns. It makes him dizzy, so he turns from the mirror, running blood caked hands through his locks. And he doesn’t look at himself until the ink settles and no longer glows. Everything about them is different, they are solid and intricate at once, and he peers over his shoulder to see the triskele.

It calms him and angers him, how it can stay so constant and steady as the rest of him changes. It doesn’t grow, it doesn’t shrink, it doesn’t fade and it doesn’t darken. Stiles sighs, sinking to the cold floor. He averts his eyes to his hands and feet, tracing the linings.They cover his entire being now, head to toe; that much he knows without having to shave his head. He doesn’t know how he’ll hide them.

* * *

 

 

Stiles locked the door to his room the second he’d gotten home and hasn’t come out since. He hasn’t showered, he hasn’t eaten, and every morning when his dad knocks on his door before heading to work asking if he’s okay, he supposes the half assed, ‘yeah, I’m good’ that he yells from the bathroom floor suffices.

He knows everyone is worried, if the forty plus missed calls are anything to go by. He has a cracked screen now, after having bashed his phone against the floor because of the constant beeping of a new unread text. It’s funny how long a phone battery lasts when you don’t want or need it to. It died sometime last night, and he couldn’t be more grateful. It’s one less reflection he’s forced to face from his inability to move on his own will.

His body hasn’t stopped moving of course, the tremors started overriding his control a few days ago. Its how every werewolf that’s visited him knows he’s there. Even if they can’t pass through the three locks on his door, or the barrier of mountain ash, they can sense his not so subtle movement and hear his limbs thud into the floor and wall.

The sheriff let Cora in one morning, where she banged on his door for having stood her up at the gym the entire week. He didn’t forget about their agreement, but he didn’t respond either, and the burning that the mountain ash delivered to her hands was probably enough for her to give up and go home.

His lack of control has sprouted from his body to his mind, where he spends his time in his subconscious and his vision zooms in on his reflection. Surprisingly though, the images he receives are blurry and they manage to distract him from his loss of bodily autonomy. He curses himself for not having asked Deaton for his stupid recipe, but maybe if he deprives himself from going to the lake long enough, things will work out just fine.

What he doesn’t count on, is Scott bringing along Allison, who picks all the locks with difficulty and whips the mountain ash out of place for Scott to pass. He’d never thought of locking the bathroom, didn’t think he’d need it. And while his subconscious provides a much needed distraction, it dulls his hearing down so that he doesn’t hear a single thing until the sound of Allison’s scream (nearly as violent as Lydia’s) resonates through the small bathroom. Stiles clutches his ears, eyes locking on Scott’s face.

A sudden feeling of betrayal makes him feel like he’s sinking out of reach. But the reality is that Scott betrayed him, and he’s there. He’s helping him sit up, wiping the sweat off his face, and holding him through his tremors. He catches Allison’s stare, her distant expression and her defensive stance. He sees it then, in the same dramatic way people in movies realize they are in love. She is the face of change. Stiles only looks away when Stiles hauls him over his shoulder, and his insides feel as if they are being torn open. His blotchy vision is locked on the moving floor, and he isn't soothed when he’s placed into the backseat of his jeep.

Allison sits next to him, wiping his sweat with his sleeve and throwing her leg over his so he doesn’t bounce out of his seat. The feeling of desperation worsens with time and distance. The farther and longer he is away from the lake, the worse he feels, the less control he has. And yet he finds undeniable comfort in the thought of Derek. The way it felt like to be held by him, even so briefly as it lasted, all gentle and awkward. And then, when he’d grabbed his wrist and drained him of physical pain, it’d felt like some kind of confirmation, a connection solidified.

He’s so caught up in reliving the moment that he doesn’t register when he is picked up and carried into Scott’s house, laid down on his friend’s bed. He leaves the room, shutting the door behind him and he’s left with Allison, who grips his wrists and presses them to the bed in order to keep him controlled. The contact burns unfamiliarly, where Derek’s fingers wrapped delicately around him.

“Stiles, hey, it’s okay.” Allison says, but there’s something about her.

When there’s a particularly violent round of trembles, he see’s it in the way she covers up a flinch with startlement. She’s scared of him, of what he is. He doesn’t blame her ignorance, because he knows he’d never willingly hurt his friend, but she doesn’t. His vision lets him see it all, the subtle movements and it’s comparison to the person’s usual behavior.

When Scott comes back, it’s with a mug that reads ‘Mama McCall’ full to the brim with the liquid Stiles’ assumes is made of Deaton’s recipe. Stiles drinks it greedily, not minding the slight burn of the hot liquid. It soothes him instantly, and he sets it down gently on Scott’s dresser, before turning to Allison and telling her to leave the room.

She doesn’t question how suddenly he’s so collected and his posture is straight but it is guaranteed that she hears Scott’s body thud against the door when she closes it behind herself. Scott doesn’t even wince. His claws don’t come out, his teeth don’t come out, and he sits there on the floor like he deserves it, because he does.

“I told her to stay in the hallway.” Scott tries to reason, but Stiles is livid.

If he hadn’t already wasted the entirety of his energy shaking the past week, it’s what he’d be doing now. The liquid settles in his gut uncomfortably so he restricts his movements in fear of lurching over and throwing up, but if that wasn’t so, he’d be across the room throwing futile punches at Scott’s already crooked jaw.

“You’re acting as if she wouldn’t of had seen when you carried me out.” He seethes through his teeth.

And yes, he is grateful, but his head is screaming ‘traitor’ far more than ‘thank you.’ Scott looks guilty at that, but a look of resignation and fear sets on his face in such a way that Stiles instantly snaps out of it. His eyes revert back to normal, and he’d forgotten they were in such state.

Scott slowly climbs to his feet and makes his way over to Stiles on the bed, “Derek is worried about you. Everyone is.”

“You spoke to Derek?” Stiles gushes out, blindsided by the notion of Derek possibly giving a shit about him.

Scott grabs his shoulders then, and the touch burns in the same way Allison’s did, “He came to me. He said he hadn’t heard from you and he was worried, so he was planning to break into your room, but I didn’t know he’d seen you in your true state, so I told him I’d do it. Then he told me about Deaton and the sirens and how he’d gotten the ingredients from Deaton to make the brew. So he gave me them and told me to make sure you’re okay.”

Stiles sighs, “This isn’t my true state. They are new markings. They cover my hands, my head, my feet. I’m completely covered Scott, and I don’t know what to do. I haven’t left the house because I can’t afford to have people see me like this.”

Scott gets it, the need to have to hide his identity, so if Stiles nails dig a little too deep into his skin in hopes of achieving some kind of consolation, he doesn’t mind. He pulls away when Allison knocks on the door, wiping a tear from his left cheek. Stiles grabs Allisons hands when she gets close to him, closing his eyes and drawing out his spark. His skin glows when he opens his eyes, taking in Allison’s intricate facial features.

He sees her throat bob as she swallows spit, but eventually her guarded stance falls and her shoulders sag, “Do you know what I am, Allison.”

She shakes her head, and he lets go of her hands to rip his shirt over his head. Her eyes trace over the black ink that covers his body, dropping to the rune like symbols surrounded by and connected to an oval, “I am a mage, and here, deep inside of me is my spark.”

The fear is no longer there, but judgement is. Perhaps the way that Allison found out was better than how Scott found out, it doesn’t change the fact that she’s reacting worse than Scott ever has. It’s been over a month, and Stiles wonders how long it will be before someone else finds out.

“I need some way to hide this.” He voices to the both of them.

“Shouldn’t Deaton know how?” Allison asks, beginning to pace the wooden floors.

Stiles can sense the genuine aura of concern laced with confusion of course; even if Stiles’ identity makes her uncomfortable, she still cares about him. It will have to suffice. For the first time, Stiles is aware of how closely he’s guarded the exposure of his body. His tattoos are out in the open, and not in the security of his room, or even his house.

He convinces Scott and Allison to stay behind and look for connections between the bodies of water and the general bodies. Eventually they budge, and Scott hands over the keys to the jeep. He does something he hasn’t ever really done comfortably, he faces the world shirtless and drives to the clinic the same way. Fear pushes him to drive faster, and he nearly crashes into the dumpster round back when he gets there.

Deaton eyebrows rise when he comes through the door to the back room. Stiles’ catches his reflection on the metallic table, nearly flinching away from it. He bites in a wince instead, and Deaton sits him down on one of the cushions used for dog cages, “I’ve visited the lake multiple times, and I’ve collected water samples for your anti-”

“I’m not here for the antidote.” He cuts him off, running his hands through his hair.

His stomach jumps and scrambles, and he finds himself hurling over and clutching his stomach. He probably should’ve grabbed something to eat before leaving Scott’s, but it’s too late now.

‘Oh?” Deaton says, setting down the jar of dragon’s blood, or calamus.

Stiles eyes it warily, aware of its many uses but many side effects, “I need to hide this.”

Deaton surveys the new expanses of skin that the tattoos mark and nods, “You don’t seem to want to cover them up.”

Stiles shuts his eyes and rubs a hand over his face. Deaton has offered guidance ever since he’s needed it, and now isn’t time to make light of a situation, “Allison saw my eyes.” He says.

“She saw my eyes and my face, because she and Scott wanted to help. I locked myself in my room with mountain ash because I didn’t want to be drawn to the lake or have anyone see me like this, but she did. She was scared and was judging me, and it’s because I look like a freak. I never wanted to be liability, but I didn’t want this either. Every superhero has their shit together, they have their alter egos in order and no one finds out anything, and I have friends fearing me because of who I am.” He rants, gnawing on the side of his thumb when he finishes.

Deaton leaves the room wordlessly, and Stiles hears a bit of banging and clanging before he returns, a herd of tiny puppies chasing after him and the food in his hands. Deaton throws the pillow he’d hand under his arm onto the floor and sits in front of Stiles. Stiles watches in awe as he places tiny bits of treats on the ground and the litter stumbles over each other in efforts of reaching it before the rest.

“A Labrador gave birth to eleven mixed pups three weeks ago. And that ne is the runt.” He says, and Stiles observes as the smallest puppy begins its journey of clawing its way onto Stiles’ lap.

Stiles sweeps him off his feet and holds him against his chest, then against his face, anger slipping away as a tiny tongue swipes across his nose repeatedly. Deaton continuously herds the pups back together, a pretty hard task, so Stiles joins in. The small one stays still on his lap and he melts to goo.

“Now, to your purpose of being here. You aren’t a superhero, you never have been. You are a mage, and your power has never resided in brute strength, it’s in your words. Use your words, your head to figure out whatever problems you have with yourself and others, not your actions. People will find out as they do, you can’t stop it and you can’t control how they react. As a mage, worry about what you can control, not what you can’t” Stiles face soften and the tension in his limbs eases.

His shoulders slouch and he feels as if the pressure of holding up an invisible crown is no longer weighing down his head. He rubs a hand over his face, before picking up the little one from his lap. His eyes are a milky brown color, kind of like his. Deaton chuckles, “Opposites attract. They really do. You are Derek will be drawn together by the universe, it's been predestined. ANd you are here drawn to that one, who sits still and is quiet.”

Stiles eyes narrow, and he observes the puppy, “Well, he’s small.” He counters, noting how scrawny he is in comparison to his siblings.

“You have me there,” Deaton admits, and grabs an especially dark haired pup and lifts her up, “I’m taking this one home, and if you’d like you can take that one in about a month.”

Stiles shakes his head, “I don’t have a job or a dad who isn’t allergic. I had a boa once, couldn’t ever get a dog though.”

Deaton nods his head and climbs to his feet, scooping up as many puppies as possible, “Well, you can always visit him.”

Stiles fumbles around with the remaining puppies, eventually knapping them and putting them back into the cage with their mom. Without the calming presence of nearly a dozen innocent souls, Stiles finally gets to what he’s been needing to ask. He asks how to hide his tattoos, which he remembers asking a two years ago, when his tattoos had begun to sprout past his elbows and knees. It had scared him, how much they covered his body, and admittedly he’d faint if he could see himself now.

He catches his reflection in the metallic table again, and he doesn’t flinch away from his appearance, just doesn’t bare to see it. Deaton grabs a book from a shelf and hands it to Stiles, opened up to a page nearing the back cover, “I discovered it recently. A mixture of an ‘eye of the beholder’ and reality altering spell. It will hide your tattoos from other while you are awake, so long as they don’t see you through a reflection.”

Stiles reads through the spell, the words that will be chanted and the number of times and the ingredients needed. It seems so unreal, that his flesh can be momentarily liberated from judgmental eyes. The spell doesn’t use up much energy to maintain, and it’ll hold while he does other magic. He’ll have to reinforce it every other day, but it’ll be just about as often as he visits the clinic, so he isn’t bound to forget.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles hides his tattoos with Allison's help and Derek makes sparks fly. Literally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know where the length of this chapter came from, but I take miracles when they come lmfao

Stiles bails on everyone for another week. He’s grateful Cora doesn’t come banging down his door this time around. Isaac doesn’t honk outside his window or shoots him texts about a new restaurant that’s opened up. Lydia doesn’t call about anymore job interviews, or anymore that he’s _missed_. Its one of those weeks when he needs space; that’s what he tells everyone. In reality he’s needed time. Time to gather ingredients for a ritual and time to memorize a spell as long as an exorcism chant. He’s had to do one before, and lets just say it took him all night.

At least with an exorcism, it’s guaranteed to work. Unrehearsed, and unimproved use of magic isn’t guaranteed success. So when the last word slips past his lips, and the lingering smell of burning chinaberry curls up his nose, he keeps his eyes shut. This can fail, and any hope he has of hiding his identity from the cruel, prying eyes of the world would crumble, And yet, he feels the magic buzz he always does when he does a spell or ritual right.

Allison’s hands clutch his arms and in a disbelieving, cheery voice she quips, “It worked! Stiles, it worked!”

His eyes snap open at that, and wordlessly he stares at the marvel that is his pale arm. There’s no indication of the tattoo’s ever having been imbedded into his flesh. A smile twists onto his face.

“It worked… It worked!” He shouts, springing up to his feet and shaking his fists. He’s still gripping the paper with the spell scrabbled on it, its thin edges cutting into his hand. With how he slaved himself chanting the words in his head for a week, there was no need to use it for reference. And when he reinforces it a few days from now, he doubts he’ll need it then either.

Excitement still grips his bones, and like a child he finds himself running to the mirror in his bathroom. A few threads rip as he pulls his shirt off, tossing it on the tiled floor carelessly. His chest is bare. His chin hangs a bit and his eyes are bulging, but he can’t find it in him to hide his astonishment.

Allison treks in a second later, saying, “Hey, the spell says no mirrors for too-”

The spell had warned not to stand in front of a mirror for more than a minute or so, as it will reveal the truth in his reflection, but Allison’s voice cut off worriedly and it wasn’t because all truth had been revealed to her.

Stiles pulls away from the mirror then, a frown settling on his face as he turns to her, “Long…” She finishes off.

His brows furrow together tighter than Derek’s do when someone makes a reference he doesn't understand, “What?” He asks.

Allison grips his shoulders and spins him around so that his back faces the mirror, turning his head enough so he can see. There’s a strain in his neck that distracts him from the way her hands burn his skin. And there on his back, the triskele remains, burning brighter than he’s ever seen any of his tattoo’s glow. He tears his gaze away before it can fade to black.

He stumbles back into his room, a little disoriented, a little unfocused. A puff of air is knocked out of his chest when he throws himself onto his bed. The bland roof he stares at doesn't comfort him.

Allison's face hovers above his own and he's broken from his stupor, sitting up against his headboard and failing to not think about the triskele stuck deep in him. He thinks of its consistency in his life, since his spark was awoken. It'd been the first to appear, not a rune, not an omen. A symbol, a figure with meaning. It was a deep black and never changed.

When the others appeared, they'd been faint. They darkened with age and as he grew stronger, but the triskele never changed. Same size, same shape.

He looks up at Allison, whose fingernails pinch at the stockings she wears. Her red skirt hitches up in the slightest, more fabric to rip. Her brown eyes sear into his own, “That’s Derek’s tattoo isn’t it? The Hale trademark?”

The sheer fabric separates in lines. One starts at her knee and ends somewhere he can't see. Another is in the making, thread caught in her fingernails.

He finally nods, when he gets bored of watching her rip something she undoubtedly has more of. He finds himself telling her everything. There isn't much her ears haven't already heard.

She hums along in response, as he recounts the story of how he'd awoken his spark. Truthfully he doesn't know how, the magic had acted on its own. It'd done what it'd needed to protect himself and his remaining family. And yet, Derek saved him.

There isn't much that he doesn't make up after that point. He says it's a guardian trademark, "Figure, since the Hales used to guard Beacon Hills, and now it's what I do, I inherited it somehow. "

She believes it. He thinks so, anyway. There's nothing in her eyes but trust, and still an edge of judgement. There's a sense of paranoia that everyone has since their introduction to the supernatural; they believe everything, and _nothing_ all at once.

He hopes Allison believes him after having allowed her to sit through him doing a new spell. A sense of trust he hasn't even given to Scott. It doesn't feed her superiority, it builds gullibility to twisted truth.

He is the guardian of Beacon Hills, but not by his association to the Hales. And his bond to the Hale family isn't because of his duty as a protector.

At the very least, he expects her to believe it because of the lack of control he's had over his appearance up until this point. She knows he didn't sit through hours of needles to get his tattoos, no. They came from inside of him, protruding from his skin to showcase his newfound power.

"Do you mind if I touch it?" She asks him.

He finds no wrong in it. So he turns his back to the black haired girl and her hands finally leave her ripped stockings alone. He shifts uncomfortably when her cold fingertips make contact with his skin. They burn in an odd way, as if his spark isn't appreciative of her touching his most solid tattoo. He doesn't mention it, the same way he didn't mention the sirens, or what had happened at the station.

Her hand drops onto her lap with a light thud when she finishes. He shuts his eyes for a second, thinks of how much he still keeps from everyone. How much he'll still have to keep from everyone. The list doesn't end when he pulls a shirt on, feet finding the floor.

"I guess I've gotta leave a shirt on." He mumbles, a slight pinch in the cloth that stretches a bit around his chest. Cora's workouts are paying off. Doesn't mean they aren't a drag.

“But it’s just a triskele, he’ll understand what it means, right?” She asks, and maybe she doesn’t know Derek too well. How the slightest things tick him off, even if he doesn't say anything about them.

But that isn’t it, “No, I don’t really think he’ll understand.”

 

* * *

 

“Come on, Stilinski. A break, then ten more!!” Cora shouts at him, letting go of Stiles’ feet for him to get up. His legs wobble without her pinning them down.

Stiles heaves in ragged breath as his heart pounds. His head spins as his sweaty palms meet the floor, pushing up in a spring to his feet. A line of sweat finds it's way into his eye, making him blink like an idiot.

Cora who's about as lazy as he is on a _moderately productive_ day, had decided no gym today. At first he thought it was a blessing. Instead, they make fools of themselves in Derek's loft while said man, Erica, and Isaac sit on their asses watching television. He’s not a fan of any shows, but not being given the option to sit and do nothing pokes at his nerves. They’re doing it to annoy him, he swears it.

With a hand on his aching stomach, he crosses over to the coffee table where his phone sits. Before he even reaches for it, he can feel it. The light tremors are back, and they aren’t from soreness or exhaustion. A sigh escapes him.

When his hand is more or less a foot away from his phone, Erica’s hand clamps around his weak wrist. Even so, his hand shakes. “Hey, the lady Hale said no phone.”

Disbelief etched into his face, he calls out to Cora, “I thought you said they wouldn’t harass me?”

She looks up from where she’s sitting on a kitchen stool, typing steadily on her laptop. He squints in irritation. This world isn’t fair. His sweaty hair sticks to his forehead, his wet shirt is slick against his back, and he’s pretty sure they’ll make him mop his puddle of sweat. He deserves his phone, at the very least. And its like Cora thinks the same as he does, because her fingers stop tapping and she calls out, “Just give the pansy his phone.”

He finds it in his heart to not get offended at Cora’s latest nickname for him. He can’t think of a retort though, too distracted by the absence of Erica’s grip. He grabs his phone and darts to the kitchen without blocking the television for too long. He has a missed call from his dad, nothing new. When he looks back at the group, Derek is staring at him. He quickly turns his head to face forward, and a small smirk works its way onto Stiles’ face.

Cora’s cough draws his attention back. There’s a knowing grin on her face, but she doesn’t comment. Stiles rolls his eyes at her judgmental antics, passing her on his way to the fridge. He doesn’t know when Derek’s loft became an open space for the pack, it just did. It might be because Derek is the oldest and most financially stable, but his loft is a second home to everyone. One with an empty fridge at the moment. There’s a bottle of soda in the far back, next to a bag of avocados. Before he can even think of reaching for it, Cora whacks him on the side of his head with the back of her bony hand. “Don’t even think of it.”

“Ow, you doofus.” He groans, halfheartedly reaching back to hit her. He should’ve shoved her off the stool when he had a chance.

He sighs, resigning to the fact that there’s not even a water bottle to drink. He straightens and shuts the door with a shaky hand, turning to face the current inhabitants of the loft, “Is there anything to drink?” He shouts.

Derek shifts on the couch, bends in a way that exposes the tan flesh of his abdomen. Stiles doesn’t pay attention to what he reaches fr. Not until its being tossed to him with stupid supernatural strength. His eyes widen, hands shooting up to catch it before it connects with his face. Its cold in his hands, and he looks down to see a partially frozen water bottle. He looks up at Derek again, whose eyebrows are raised expectantly.

He doesn’t realize everyone’s attention is on him until Isaac contributes, “Well, drink it.”

In response, he shrugs his shoulders and uncaps the bottle, latching his lips to its rim without hesitation. The cold liquid meets his throat and instantly serves to soothe his heated state and calm his nerves. No one is paying him any mind when he’s done chugging, so he lifts the bottle to his nose and sniffs. It smells a bit like the brew he drinks to calm him, probably has an ingredient or two. It doesn’t have a yellow tint that the entire mix has, but it has something.

“Yo, Derek.” He beckons, then tosses the bottle back. It only has a chunk of ice in it, but if Derek cares, he doesn’t voice it.

And it’s as if that was enough for Cora’s trainer stamina to replenish. She shuts her laptop and comes over to stand in front of him in all her five foot four glory, hands on her hips. He shuts his eyes and hopes for the best. Hopes she won’t make him do more sit ups. But then her voice cuts him out of his optimism, “I told you it was a break. Back on the floor, man.”

He glares at her and stalks into the kitchen to leave his phone on the island, next to Cora’s laptop. She’s glaring at him when he prances over to where he was earlier. The pile of sweat dried itself with the humidity in the loft. Cora probably turned off the air conditioner a while ago. It would explain why Isaac disappeared; too hot to leave on his his scarf. And it’s too hot for Stiles to leave on his sweater, so he pulls it off, balls it up and tosses it aside. He uses his shirt to fan himself a bit, flabbing the fabric by its hem.

Cora stares at him, and it hits him just as he situates himself on the ground. She has never seen more than his face and hands. No one really has. Her eyebrows are pinned up in surprise and his lips are parted in the slightest. He has completely shocked her, by the looks of it. Her face falls after she sees he’s staring at her, a nervous bark of laughter escaping her. “Wow, who knew an audience would get you motivated.” There’s no doubt that supreme awkwardness is a Hale trait. And yet, he finds himself blushing at the remark.

The absence of his tattoo’s lets him feel relieved for once. He feels as free as he possibly can while Cora pins down his feet so he can finish another set of sit ups. There has been a difference since he started working out consistently. He has a bit more energy, a bit more stamina, and when he sucks his stomach in, the outline of a six pack ghosts under his skin in the mirror. He’ll never admit any of it to Cora though.

Not when she forces him to go through this four times a week. He stood her up for over two weeks, so he doesn’t get to question the added day, but if he doesn’t get a job soon the personal boot camp he’s forced to attend will drive him out of his mind. Or body entirely. Both maybe.

The lunges burn his calves and the mountain climbers make his arms wobble, but he complains only with mild sincerity. He promises he’ll be strong enough to choke her one day, and she laughs at him. He doesn’t know where she can get the air to do so when she’s doing the same exercises he is; blames it on her damn wolflihood. When she says that he can stop, he drops onto his back and doesn’t bother tracking where she goes.

Erica approaches him when he’s done collecting himself, still not moving his aching limbs to get up, though. She pokes at his ribs with her painted toes, and he rolls over in pain. Its a step closer to getting to his feet. “Go away goldilocks.” He groans loudly as an afterthought.

“Okay,” Is her fair warning, before she bends down to his leverland hooks her arms underneath his chest. She hauls him up and plants him on his feet, and he’s a bit dizzy when she lets go of him.

In his head, he damns every supernatural being in the household, including himself. Guilty by association, he supposes. It’s how he’ll go down. He’s accepted that early on. Whatever kills his pack will will kim too. He looks over at Cora and Isaac, who hang from a pole in the air. He watches them for a while, as they try to outdo each other at pull ups. He can’t even do one. He decides then, exercise won’t be what kills him, he’ll make sure of it.

He tears his eyes away and ventures over to the kitchen, where Erica is sitting on the island. He punches her on the knee when he reaches her, and she pretty much punches him in the face. He doesn’t complain. “Hey, where did Derek go?”

Without looking up from his phone, she points at the spiral staircase. His room. He mumbles a thanks and doesn’t even try to get his phone back. It's futile, and its not like he has much to hide. As ironic as it is, the most secretive thing he might have on his phone is a dick pic or maybe ten. They’re all from over a year ago, when his dick was free of tattoo’s. Not that he ever sent nudes to a pack member, but who the hell gets their genitalia tatted?

The squeak of his sneakers is audible to him now that the noise of the television isn’t covering it. It’s only his left shoe, an annoying pattern of sounds that distracts him enough that he has to recover from tripping up every other step. He ignores the noise entirely with gritted teeth at the midway point.

Truthfully, he’s explored every last inch of Derek’s loft except for his room. The guy’s a werewolf and would undoubtedly track Stiles’ scent to Antarctica for invading his privacy. Stiles would meet his end with a ripped out throat and his blood staining precious snow red. So, when he gets to the last step, he’s prepared to knock, but there isn’t a door. He’s greeted with floor to ceiling windows and brick walls that were never painted. It’s nice scenery, with a black, wooden bed set that matches Derek’s soul.

And the room is big, like, Derek’s king sized bed taking up less than a fifth of the room kind of big. Big enough that Stiles doesn’t notice Derek is sitting on said bed, at least. Derek doesn’t look like he wants to kill him, he looks like a curious boy really, so Stiles slowly makes his way to stand in front of the guy. Derek makes a big deal out of inhaling and cringing, “You stink.”

“Yeah.” Stiles agrees. “Your sister just forced me sweat a freaking lagoon.” Even as he says the words, a drop of sweat nearly finds its way into his mouth before he wipes at it with the back of his hand.

“I came up to say thanks. For the water earlier.” He doesn’t say why, knowing the walls are thin, even without the supernatural boost. But Derek gets it.

He nods and unfolds his legs from underneath him. If Stiles didn’t know the guy any better, he’d mistake the way Derek’s lips quirk to the side as a smile. “I make sure my pack has what they need.”

There’s a loud crash that comes from downstairs, then Erica shouts, “Lies! You only care about Stiles, Der-bear.”

Stiles’ cheeks grow warm, and he thanks his sweaty state for being an excuse as to why. His legs feel like jelly for reasons other than the lunges he’d done earlier. He knows why Derek cares about him, even if Derek himself doesn’t know. Neither of them acknowledge her comment, but Stiles finds solace in the pink tint of Derek’s face. It’s an unfamiliar look on him that Stiles commits to memory.

Stiles heads for the stairs then, but before he descends the first step he turns back to Derek who's still blushing, and asks, “Mind if I shower?”

“Go ahead.” He responds, then stands up to do whatever Derek does. Stiles doesn’t stick around to see, taking it as his cue to leave. He’s halfway down the stairs with his aching thighs and squeaky shoes before Derek’s hand is hot over his arm. His fingers almost curl around his bicep entirely, and for once since the last time Derek touched his skin, a human’s contact doesn’t sear his flesh. The one step difference places Derek’s lips directly in his line of sight, where they twitch like he wants to say something but changes his mind at last minute.

Stiles forces himself to look somewhere else, but that’s a mistake. Derek’s green orbs entrance him, specs of gold flying as his eyes flicker left and right, up and down, scanning Stiles’ face and his every facial feature. It’s like he’s searching for something, but he finds nothing, and he ends up ramming a pile of clothes between their chests, paired with a bite of laughter that sounds almost nervous.

Stiles face scrunches up in confusion.

“Thought you’d want clean clothes.” Derek explains, letting go of Stiles and the clothes once Stiles grips it.

Stiles nods, catching sight of his arm where Derek was holding him. His skin glows in the same way his tattoos did when they were visible. Little sparks of orange light hover over his skin that make him panic. He covers his arm with the clothes and bolts like Cinderella. He pointedly ignores everyone's gazes, nearly slamming the bathroom door shut when he gets inside.

He makes sure to lock it, letting his back fall against the wood. Like the creep he is, he brings the black clothes to his face and inhales deeply. Derek had said they were clean, but they smell like Derek, not like soap or detergent. They smell like calamity and security, like home. Stiles drags his nose across the soft cotton for a solid minute, before he remembers that he’s in a house full of werewolves.

So he sets the clean clothes down on the toilet top and peels off his sticky clothes, dumping them in a pile on the floor. Stepping into the shower, the cold tile nips at the bottom of his feet and the smell of a dozen different shampoos invade his nose. All Isaac’s most likely. He turns one of the three knobs, and is immediately attacked by freezing water. An involuntary scream escapes him, and he’s probably being laughed at.

He turns each and every knob, hoping for warmth, but nothing works. Sadly, the opportunity to jack off in one of Derek’s bathrooms slips through his fingers. So to make up for it, he uses each and every lather and bounces out of the shower so fast he nearly breaks his nose on the glass door. He’s never left the comfort of a shower so quickly, but cold water will never be comfortable. No matter how gradually he’s introduced to it.

When he’s out of the shower, he uses the towel thats on the rack to dry his hair, most of the water from his body dripping down onto the floor. He uses his sweater shirt to dry it and hopes no one minds. Then, in front of the mirror he throws on Derek’s clothes, reveling in the way they fit him two sizes too big. His biceps swim around in the shirt’s sleeves and the sweats slide down his hips enough that they expose his happy trail, because he’s too lazy to pull them up again and again.

Stiles looks up at his face and runs his fingers through his hair once then twice, and then he’s out the door with his dirty clothes in his hands. At least now, his skin doesn’t glow and sparks don’t literally fly.

He hopes Derek doesn’t expect his clothes to be returned, because once you go commando you can’t go back. Isaac and Erica are giggling like kids and Stiles plays along. He childishly nips at the finger Erica points at him. He also makes a mental note to thank Boyd later, for not getting dragged into his girlfriends shit. She hands him back his phone and giggles, “You couldn’t figure out how to get hot water, could you?”

In response, he mimics her and refuses to actually answer the question. She knows the answer. He’s grateful now; that Cora turned off the air conditioner earlier, and that no one’s turned it back on.

He finds the Hale’s in the kitchen, both distracted by their phones. Derek looks up at him, or at his arm at least. Stiles doesn’t think about it too much, makes sure to tease Cora about texting Lydia and smiling like a dork while doing it. He can feel Derek’s gaze on him the entire time, but before anyone rises to the occasion of asking questions, he promises to take Derek grocery shopping, and says he’ll see him later. He calls out the same to everyone else, and then he’s out the door. One Hale pays him no mind, while the other gives him his undivided attention.

 

* * *

 

His dad is at the window when he gets out of his car, after having sounded his alarm system. He opens the door and when Stiles gets close enough, he pulls him into a hug and shuts the door. Stiles doesn’t know why he’s being hugged, but it doesn’t stop him from snaking his arms around his father and burying his head in his shoulder. They haven’t argued, or anything, but it dawns to him that it isn’t a makeup hug. Its an “I miss you” hug. This is the first they’ve seen of each other in three weeks. Everything has been phone calls and shouts through closed doors.

Stilinski hugs are rare but always welcome. He and his dad have never been the most affectionate. It’d always been something his mother united them all with, and since she’s gone they pull through with pats and shakes. Hugs are golden. And he only pulls away when his dad starts patting his back and the top of his head, like when he was a boy.

His dad doesn’t explain the hug, because he doesn’t need to. Instead, they sit on the couch watching an old action movie with horrible animation and crappy stunts. They talk about the supernatural, the new baddies and everything going on. He should expect it, really, when his dad turns during a commercial break to say, “Stiles… what was that that day at the station?”

Stiles nearly chokes on his spit. The whole ordeal at the station had been on the news, but without any close footage and no deaths it hadn’t draw much attention. The only thing they’d gotten was a fuzzy image from the deli on the other side of the street. And they didn’t get the other guys, no, they’d gotten Stiles walking out with bloody hands. He doesn’t know how to feel about it, being portrayed as a psycho, a murderer even though no one had died.

But the failed massacre can’t be pinned to him, because people can’t see his tattoos now, and it’s all they’d seen then. They’d seen his face tattoos and nothing more, no sense of human connection. If his dad had seen him in that state, he would’ve knocked his door down and accused him weeks ago, “What do you mean?” He asks, the words ‘innocent until proven guilty’ coming to mind.

“Those things you had on your neck? I asked you and you ran out on me, and the next thing I know there are men down everywhere. You didn’t get hurt, did you?” The sheriff says, and Stiles finds himself relieved he doesn’t believe Stiles did it. He doesn’t suspect his son did anything, even though to a sensible person, he’d of been the first suspect.

But he can’t think of a response, even if he didn’t do it. He responds with proof instead of words. He gets to his feet and faces his dad, slipping out of Derek’s shirt, “I’m fine dad, the black thing was probably a hickey and I panicked okay? It’s not there anymore, but I doubt you want to make sure.”

“I don’t.” His dad says distantly.

He pulls the shirt back on, then places his hand on his father’s shoulder, “I got out okay, I promise. I told you, I don’t do much physically, I’m a mental guy.”

His dad nods skeptically at that, “Yeah, I know that much.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets a job, and Derek is slightly jealous. Erica's knowledge is questionable in the absence of Stiles' one information source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmfao I'm horrible. What I had written was deleted somehow, so I had a lot of rewriting to do, and school started on top of that. Ehh, I should update in a week or so.

“Lydia, I need you to go with me, for emotional support more than anything.” Stiles says over the phone, two hours before his fifth interview maybe. He’s been given no news. Not that he had expected much after cancelling in the marvelous way he did. Still, it’d be nice to finally get Cora off his back.

Lydia huffs in response, and he hears Cora shuffling around in the back. He doubts that it’s Prada. “Fine, I’ll be ready in a half hour.” Lydia resigns, and he can picture her lips curving down in a half pout, half frown.

“I’m gunna kill you Stilinski.” Cora threatens, her voice muffled and distant. Then the call drops. He finds himself chuckling quietly as he skips down the stairs.

Aside from having a horrible sense of timing, the reason why he hasn’t gotten a call back is probably because of his attitude towards getting a job. He has a lack of interest for everything he’s interviewed for He’s anxious, hates being questioned and having to speak to strangers. Maybe Lydia’s presence will motivate him to act like he wants the job.

When he gets to the base of the steps he can see his father asleep on the couch, the top of his head peeking up over the edge. His arm hangs off to the side, fingers lightly touching the floor. Stiles quietly makes his way over to where he lays, lifting his arm and placing it on his stomach. His dad stirs in his sleep, rolling over and burying his face into the couch cushion.

Stiles pulls off his sweater and drapes it over his father, who’s spit lolls out of his mouth and rolls down his face. He shifts again, and Stiles makes his way out of the house silently. He thinks of why his dad asked him to get a job. It isn’t necessary, and yet, in all its right, it is. His mom deserves the best, even if she’s not around. Even if when she was, she like the simplest of things. Stiles refuses to give her simple.

It gives him the burst of energy, of motivation that he needs.

He hops in his car and kicks off dirt before shutting the door. The car rumbles as he turns it on, and he pats the wheel in encouragement. His tank tells him he should fill up the tank and he does it to kill time before heading over to Lydia’s. Cora’s probably distracting her anyways, so he wipes down his windshield while he’s at it, shooting her a text that reads:

**I’ll be there in ten.**

He takes his time driving, because his interview isn’t until another hour anyways. He passes house by house, bouncing here and there at every pothole he can’t avoid. He can mostly avert them, the roads acting as black and blank canvas for the jeep to chew up and spit out behind him. But the government doesn’t care enough to scrape the ground down to bricks and cover it up with fresh asphalt.

Lydia’s neighborhood cares enough, he supposes. New looking houses, empty trash cans, clean sidewalks. It all screams void of children, and it suits Lydia’s lifestyle. Her mom helped her get the place, considering she lives across the street. He doesn’t question the closeness too much as he pulls into her driveway and honks. She’d been the first of the entire pack to move out, rooming with Cora more days than not, and renting the other rooms to whoever can afford.

There’s a buzz in his pocket and he pulls his phone out to read:

**I’ll be out in a sec.**

Cora pulls aside their bedroom curtains in all her naked glory just to flip him off, and he finds himself laughing as Lydia sneaks up behind her and smacks her on the ass. Cora’s face connects with glass for a second and Stiles bites his lips shut so he doesn’t completely lose it. She disappears from the window, and Stiles assumes she's chasing Lydia, because the redhead comes dashing out of her house in laughter, beige purse dandling behind her

Stiles bursts into laughter when Cora appears out the door in only a pair of shorts. She hooks her fingers around the strap of Lydia’s purse, twirling her back and into a kiss. Hair is flying everywhere and things look like they’ll get gropey. Stiles turns away then, can’t ever stand pda from other couples. Can barely stand _giving_ pda.

Lydia opens the passenger door a moment later, and he looks just in time to see Cora flip him off once again before slamming the door shut. Lydia buckles up next to him, and he stares at her. Her face is flushed, but she seems put together. Her hair is tossed onto her right shoulder, not frizzy or anything, and her clothes are as straight as they can be. Sounds like Lydia. “What?” She asks, big eyes looking expectant.

“Nothing, just wondering how you tolerate Cora. The mushy side of Cora.” He shudders at the thought and Lydia cackles. He starts the car then, wincing as it makes a broken down sound, and drives off. She sets the gps up on her phone, and they talk instead of turning on the radio. Last time they did that, they’d missed every command the phone gave and ended dangerously close to San Francisco. They learned.

There are enough breaks between conversation so that they don’t miss a signal. “She’s persistent; not as annoying as you think; and she’s also really good at keeping my attention.”

Stiles doesn’t miss the innuendo, groans his annoyance, and spares a glance at Lydia. Her cheeks are as puffy as a hamster, and she burst into laughter when he turns to the road again, “I didn’t even try to make that one, I swear.”

He scoffs, and she lowers the windows a bit to fill the silence of the ride with whipping wind. She's aware that he's still mad at her. But then, she's mad at him too.

She'd called him, asking about the jobs he was interested in. He'd said, perhaps too casually, that he didn't care as long as he got paid. He was in his room, doing something on his laptop , and she cleared her throat to get his attention back. It meant that she asked something and he wasn't listening. Oops.

_“What range are you willing to travel? Beacon hills doesn’t have much available besides the library, which Allison will fire you from because she refuses to work with a friend, and I know the fast food restaurant needs a grill boy, but lets be real Stiles you burn everything while simultaneously burning yourself. Beacon county should have a lot more available, and I can get you something on the outskirts of town.” The attitude in her voice was easy to catch. _

_He winced. At everything. “The jeep won’t mind forty five minute trips.” He says, nodding along._

_Lydia had said she’d put him on speaker, but even if she hadn’t, Cora could still hear. She made noise in the back, more so than usual, and asked, “But isn’t Beacon Hills surrounded by forests?”_

_He held himself back from saying, ‘No, of course not.’ He didn’t want to reap the benefits of even more attitude, from the both of them. Lydia responded, “Yeah but I know there are a few hotels and restaurants lining the main roads, like the one you stayed at during that lacrosse game out of town.” _

_“Ugh, shut up, don’t remind me.” Stiles grunted, threw his covers to the side. His room had grown a bit too warm. _

_He remembers high school as just bad, but that week was his highlight of shit times. “What happened on that trip?” Cora asked in the back, voice clearer, closer to the phone._

_It’d been a few months after he began his studies with Deaton and he was levitating the nightstand when Danny and a few other guys had barged into the wrong room, so Stiles panicked and dropped it on his foot. He screamed bit too loud, a bit too wimpish. The pain and swelling was so bad, he wasn’t allowed to play for the rest of the season. The team never let it die, how Stiles tried lifting furniture and failed miserably and cried like a little kid._ _To even out the score, he’d gotten the entire team piss drunk the day before the game and everyone was on the field puking their asses off during practice. Sadly, that included himself, and Isaac had recorded Stiles ranting about how hot Derek Hale was and is._

_Lydia didn’t spare a single detail, except that she and Allison were only there because Lydia had her first banshee pulling. Stiles finds it hypocritical, how she reminded him of one of the worsts times in his life while refusing to acknowledge it was hers as well. His laughter was a bit too forced, Lydia was a bit too quiet, Cora was a bit too rigid in how she spoke afterwards. It didn’t take long for Stiles to make up a reason to hang up. Lydia knew how she’d messed up._

And she won’t talk about it. Not that he’ll be the first to bring it up, but to be fair, she’d started it.

At a red light, he turns to look at her. She’s typing something on her phone, forearms resting on her bare knees. She doesn’t look at him until she’s finished. “Wanna get something to eat after your interview?” She asks, in a way that indicates she’s in no rush.

He nods, and the car behind him honks. He looks back in the rear view mirror to see the guy flip him off, so he steps on it. The jeep jerks a bit, and Lydia’s phone tumbles out of her hand and onto the floor mat. She’ll live.

He doesn’t look back again after that. “Well, someone has road rage.” He mutters, and Lydia nearly snorts. The rest of the drive is full of bad jokes and images of food in his head. His stomach grumbles throughout the entirety of his interview, and the absence of money in his pockets push him to be just a bit more social. He thinks of Scott too, and how he’s been borrowing money from him a lot more than he used to. It nearly makes him cringe, but the task at hand - maintaining a friendly smile - prevents him from doing so.

The woman behind the desk chuckles, dimpled cheeks and warm eyes showing. She seems like the kind of welcoming and homey person that doesn’t mind working a bit more to show people how things are done. He’s okay with working in the small hotels a receptionist or a bellboy or something. Maybe not a bellboy, nights are starting to get chilly.

And when he leaves the office, resume and application draft in his clear folder, there’s a genuine smile that settles itself on his face. Lydia is waiting for him in the lobby, and there’s a look of surprise on her face. A smile isn’t what graces people after Stiles is forced to socialize. This, this is refreshing though. For the both of them.

He’d recorded bits and pieces of the conversation between him and his possible employer when he could. So that it didn’t look like he was some kid focused only on technology. Which he is; 100% definitely is.

 

* * *

 

 

“Yeah, chicken alfredo with a lot of cheese.” Stiles repeats and agrees when the young waitress stops at their booth again.

She’s clumsy, all smiles and unsubtle trips over thin air. Her brown hair bobs on her shoulders while she chuckles and apologizes again, “And tomato soup for the lady?"

"Yes, and a coke and sprite." She adds, and the waitress scrabbles it down. She hadn’t before, and while the diner isn’t exactly bus, he doesn’t blame her inexperience. Heaven knows he’ll mess up so bad throughout the first few weeks of employment.

Lydia’s fingers flicker around on her phone, and Stiles watches as the girl heads into the kitchen to pin the little sheet of paper up against metal. Stiles’ palms begin to grow moist as he rubs his hands together, toying around with the way his fingers bend. His stomach churns, and every time the waitress heads out with a dishes balanced impossibly on a tray against her hip, he gets hopeful.

He and Lydia sit side to side in a booth a bit too small for anything other than their bodies, Lydia’s rectangular purse and a few inches of comfort space, Their elbows don’t bump, only because Lydia is left handed and sitting at the end of the seat, but they are close enough to. Stiles would move to sit on the other side, except, there is no other side, and if there was, he’s already leaning against the wall, and he’s too lazy to move.

When the food is set down in front of them, he barely mumbles a ‘thank you’ before digging in. The soft, twisty noodles burn his tongue and the cheese drags a line from the plate to the fork to his mouth. He couldn’t be happier. From the corner of his eye, he can see Lydia blowing at her spoon lightly, alternating in taking small sips of soup and sprite. Her pink lipstick smudges onto the rim of the spoon and he’s pretty sure she has a tube of the stuff in her purse. She’s just as hungry as he is.

The warmth coiled happily in his stomach and he is sated enough to slow down and take pauses. He pulls out his phone, the beaten old thing that he’s too broke to replace yet. He cringes at seeing the cracked screen that rasps his fingers. There are three lines, three cracks that cross over his camera and prevent him from taking a picture of Lydia stealing him of a chunk of chicken.

He turns to her, “Don’t you do meatless Mondays?” He asks, and she pokes the piece of meat in her mouth without guilt.

“Yeah, but it’s not Monday.” She replies.

He can hear the waitress chuckle, and he checks his damaged phone for the day. Tuesday; oh. He stuffs another few noodles in his mouth, switching to the back camera with his other hand. When he hold up his phone to snap the picture, Lydia gets the idea. She takes the pictures the same way as him, the accidental flash set off blinding them both. Lydia takes a few more, then sets her phone down to continue eating her soup.

He does the same, but then the curiosity to see the picture outweighs his hunger. The metal fork clinks against the plate and he picks up his phone, elbows resting on the table and his phone only inches from his face. When he clicks on his gallery, he drops his phone into his plate with a loud bang. The picture had been small alongside the rest of his albums, but even with the cracked screen he saw what he needed to.

"Stiles, are you okay?" Lydia asks him, hand on his shoulder and soup long forgotten. "You look like you saw someone's death, and quite frankly, that's my job."

He turns his head to her, her eyes bulging as big as his. He looks around, the other people in the diner are looking at them. Some look down, but most of them continue to stare. He turns back to Lydia, "Lyds let me see your phone real quick?"

She looks down at his phone, gooey and half submerged in alfredo sauce. She picks up on the wrong idea quickly, "Oh no, no matter how ugly your face, I'm keeping these pictures."

He attempts to snatch the phone from where it lays face down on the table, but she captures his wrist and with her free hand she grabs her phone and starts clicking away. He tries once more to at least knock it from her hand but she opens up her images and there it is. On his face, two hollow, triangle like markings on his face and a singular dot below the bridge of his nose. She filters through the images, slowly moving away from him as she does. The first one that she'd taken, with his flash in the back, made his tattoos glow yellow/orange and his eyes shine grey. In the rest with the flash dulling, his tattoos are a solid black, and his eyes half brown half grey.

Lydia stands up then, fishes a few bills from her purse and throws them on the table. Then she's on her way out the door, phone clutched tightly in her hand and her arms crossed over her chest. He follows, calls out an apology to the gawking waitress and grabs his phone from the mess of noodles.

It makes his hand sticky, and he wipes as much as he can on a napkin that he swipes from a table on the way out. The door chimes once when he steps outside and twice when it clamps shut behind him. For once, Lydia seemed frightened of him. And not in the, "hey kid with a crush on me, you're creepy" kind of way. She was shocked and slightly terrified, but she hadn't made a scene as to why. She has better instincts than to out the supernatural like that. To the point when she senses someone's death, she no longer screams. She makes a rumbling noise that sounds something like a growl. It’s hysterical but frightening all the same.

Stiles clicks the car open and hops in, shutting the door behind him. Lydia is leaning against the passenger side, arms crossed. She won't get in the car for a while at least. So he leans over the middle and taps on the window. She turns around, brows furrowed and lips pursed. He rolls down the window in response.

"I'll let you drive?" He offers, a cheesy smile gracing his face innocently.

She rolls her eyes, "You can drive, Stilinski."

She opens the passenger door and swings in, but she sits a little farther from him. He tries to turn on the radio, lighten the situation, but she slaps his hand away just as his fingers brush against the button. And just like that, the determination returns. He starts the car wordlessly and pulls out into the main road, heading towards Beacon Hills.

Sure, she can stop him from turning on the radio, but she can't make him speak. At a red light, when his foot is pressed tightly to the brakes, she turns to him with her phone in hand, "You are telling me what this is."

He huffs, and ignores the bright screen to his right. He looks up at his rear view mirror instead, and with the empty road that greets him, he lets go of the brakes and switches to the acceleration, "Fine, you're telling me what you are."

"I'm human." He says, nose flaring slightly and lips twitching.

His hunger is gone, but so is his peace. The day hasn't turned bad, exactly. Lydia is understanding enough, once she's given reason. He just hasn't given her it yet. From the corner of his eye he can see her move around until her seatbelt is underneath her arm. Her body swivels a bit, until she can turn enough to throw her arms at something in the trunk ahead of him, there are potholes that he can't avoid completely, rattling the frame of his can. He winces as Lydia jolts back and forth.

She doesn't complain, and when she settles back in her seat, his bat is in her hands. He glares at her for a second or two, "Let go of that."

He means it.

She jabs at him instead, in the gut, in the arm. Not forcefully enough to hurt at all, just to annoy him. Because Lydia isn't a forceful person, she's a strategic person. He focuses on her for a second, focuses on his bat instead of the road. After merging into an exit that loops them around onto higher road.

When he's clear of the cars near him, he pokes at Lydia blindly. His fingers connect with her side and she drops the bat while laughing. Sinfully ticklish she is. When he pulls his hand away and she stops laughing, she gasps instead and her eyes widen. The bat is floating. Stiles looks over at the driver beside them, who's mouth hangs open. He lowers the bat out of his view in response, so that it hovers only a few inches above her knees, "Magic?" She asks.

And there arrives the Lydia who knows far too much about everything. She and him both spend their time researching the supernatural, what's real and what isn't. The only difference is that she retains information, he retains only was completely necessary, and what's completely useless. No in between.

"A witch?"

He shakes his head.

"Wizard."

He cringes.

"Warlock?" 'Warmer.' He thinks, but again he shakes his head.

"A mage?" He can see the frown working its way onto her face as she wracks her brain for another explanation.

By then, he's set the bat down on the floor mat, and whatever cars that were around have sprawled out even farther. They are approaching Beacon Hills, where things are dead and slow. It doesn't take long to pass the sign, and in twenty minutes he'll drop Lydia off to her loving wolf.

That's twenty minutes worth of questions. And he answers them honestly. With the usual lie of course, that the tattoo is a symbol of his guardianship, "I call bullshit."

And she's the first to say that.

"I've read everything on guardians of the supernatural, especially those drawn to this region, I think I would remember something - anything about three spirals. It screams Derek Hale and you know it." She says, almost breathlessly.

He understands why, of the three of them, she takes their readings more seriously. She knows her stuff and doesn't accept being wrong, usually because she's right, or because she hasn't been proven right.

He angles the mirror down so that it faces him, counts on the fact that he hasn't reinforced the spell in two days. Slowly but surely, the tattoos appear, crawling over his skin as Lydia stares in awe. She grabs her phone and brings it up to him, comparing the picture to reality. It's a match.

Instead of driving her home, he drives her to the preserve. It's not his smartest idea, not when he's still enchanted, but his dad is home and there is no where else to go. Lydia isn't trusting to a fault, but she's smart. She knows that he didn't give that much about himself to take her to some cabin in the woods and kill her.

The dirt paths are familiar, tracks left behind from countless times that Stiles has gone into the woods. Nature is close to home. They step out the car and when Stiles curves around the car to Lydia's side, she crushed a branch with her heel, "Where exactly are you taking me?"

He's not reckless, he won't go to the lake when it's exactly what got him where he is. Having all his friends slowly learn about him, about what he is. So he leads her into the clearing right in front of them, and quickly whispers the words that make their existence untrue.

He peels his clothes off quickly and sets them down in a pil, until there is nothing left but underwear and a shirt. That, he takes off slowly, the fabric ruffling his hair and exposing truths to those who can read it.

"I never thought I'd want to see you as naked as I do now." Lydia says, a hint of sarcasm, a hint of suggestion. She looks him up and down, taking in all his tattoos.

She looks up in awe, "You're a pure magical being. I thought they were dead. Druids and witches are all that remain in records."

Stiles turns around then, since she's stuck in a spot. She circles around him after he refuses to turn, "You know what it is, don't you?"

She nods, lifting her shirt up so that her pale skin reveals a birthmark, no larger than a dot, "Cora has the same one, the only one. Apparently birthmarks are rare in werewolves, so her family always knew. We met as infants, apparently. But you two, the bond emerged after he got his tattoo."

"Lydia, you probably know more about it than I do." He says honestly, bowing his head and stooping down to put on his clothes again.

"He doesn't know, does he? Stiles, do you know how hard it is for some people to find their soulmates? They get scars, and birthmarks, and moles, but you get a tattoo as common as the name Stiles." Frustration falling into her voice. He knows how many useless dates and one night stands she'd gone through, trying to find someone to endure life with.

"I can't tell him Lydia. He deserves to know, but I can't." He says, desperation leaking into his voice. There's too much at stake.

Derek can't hate him, but he can hate what he is, what he can do. He has a town and a really small family to protect, and beating himself up over the fact that his soulmate doesn't accept him will distract him far too much. And speaking of protecting his town; there still are sirens on the loose, because his friends have been slowly chipping away at his secret life, and he's had to react. "And why the hell is that?" Lydia doesn't even try to block the attitude. She's upset, frustrated at the very least.

He won't say it to her, but it's because his life is crumbling around him, he doesn't know how to handle everything, and he's scared.

 

* * *

 

"Stiles, outside, now." Derek orders, and huh, that's new.

He hasn't ordered Stiles to do anything since... oh right, since he decided to join him and Cora at the gym. Lydia comes along, Isaac comes along, and sometimes Scott even comes along. Everyone groups up and then it’s them left, and Derek barks orders, even when he’s the one with his feet pressed into the floor. Not that he needs it.

He took a pause when his music suddenly cut off, blaring his ringtone through his earphones. He eased off the treadmill and picked up, a ring or two before the call could go to voicemail. Having the friends he did, they all eventually crowded around, except Lydia. Felt as if she knew too much, anyways.

He pressed the phone to his ear and answered with a tired 'hello'? His chest heaved and his face dripped with sweat. He pulled the phone away a bit, cringing and ignoring Scott’s chuckle.

He recognized the voice when she started talking, "Hello? Mr. Stilinski?"

After confirming, that yes he is he, she answered, "You are hired, is it okay if you start next week Tuesday? At noon?"

And Stiles had jumped off the floor, throwing his free hand in the air. Clearing his throat, he said "Oh, um, yeah, yeah that's fine."

Everyone in the gym stared at him, and his aching legs nearly gave out underneath his equally tired body. His friends eased off then, easing back to their workouts. He looked past Derek’s shoulder, to Lydia who hadn’t stopped running. She looked over, eyebrows rising and pace slowing every so lightly. He smiled, but then, Derek had gotten all in his face. He was angry in a controlled way, too many people to flare his nose and growl in Stiles’ ear.

And then, with a hand curled deep in Stiles’ black wifebeater, he’d asked so politely to speak with him. Stiles doesn't see why, really. Derek doesn’t let him _think_ and walk at the same time, dragging him outside, and from the a few yards into the parking lot. Werewolfs.

“Okay wolf boy, the hell is your deal? Didn’t sleep well, ate too much, what is it?” His works are drenched in wit, a coy method of pronunciation, but truthfully, he’s intimidated.

Now without public eye, ironically, Derek let his anger show. His breath is hot on Stiles’ face, his sharp teeth bared and Stiles crosses his eyes to keep focus on them. His eyes flicker up to Derek’s, hazel whiskey meeting green ocean and Derek leans in just a bit. And if Stiles thinks its for a kiss, nope, Derek’s face dipping to the side so that his breath is hot against his ear, “What the hell are you doing with your time?”

And Stiles doesn’t get it, pulls back to think about far too deeply. His mind comes up blank, and Derek finally lets go of his shirt when he looks up again. He calms down a bit too, and Stiles doesn’t miss the deep exhale, “What are you going to do about the sirens?”

Stiles doesn’t see how it crosses, “I don’t know, that’s up to you guys.”

“I mean your enchantment, what are you doing about it if you’re spending all your time volunteering at Scott’s job, working out with my sister, and getting a job?” And he sounds irritated, as if Stiles isn’t allowed to do these things.

“I have priorities.” He says simply. Derek is antsy. He doesn’t like threats of danger, doesn’t like being tied up by a human who’s enchanted so that he can’t just handle the threat. Doesn’t like sitting by. Stiles gets that, but truthfully, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do about it either.

“Priorities? Do you hear yourself? A job is more important than your mental freedom?” Stiles nods, could’ve chosen better words, but hey.

“Well maybe I’ll like being overpowered!” He shouts, and then sighs. The sweat on his forehead starts drying, and maybe one day he’ll stop saying things like that.

For the record, he does like being overpowered. Just not mentally, if it even goes that way. Derek shuts his eyes but doesn’t roll them. That’s something. “Fix it, or I will.”

Yeah, how?

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh no, feet off the table Goldilocks.” Stiles says, kicking Erica’s feet down.

She doesn’t complain, just pulls the popcorn bowl towards her chest and grips the remote control tightly. But she can’t have both, Stiles decides.

Erica’s eyes bulge just a second before, “No! No!” But too late. Stiles throws himself on the couch, popcorn flies, and as Erica tries to lessen the blow by leaning over the bowl, her grip on the black remote loosens enough for him to snatch it. There’s two or three more oil stains on the couch, confusable with other fluids, but it was worth it.

“Now,” He mumbles, shoves his face with processed, flakey fat, “Star wars or star wars?”

“I refuse.” Erica mumbles, and Stiles looks down at his twitching toes and shaking hands.

He gets up and walks to the kitchen, tossing Erica the remote, “Fine. Pick something good. Two minutes for water to boil, Erica.”

She nods probably, not that he can see while he fills a little pot with water. He sets it down on the stove, turned to full volume, and then he’s bounding up the stairs, two steps at a time. Inside his room, he grabs the brew, which he’s stuffed proportionately into little tea pouches, then heads back downstairs. Erica is flickering the channels between two that are playing How I Met Your Mother and The Big Bang Theory when the water begins to bubble.

He groans, “Pick one, you mule.”

Her choice, of course, is How I Met Your Mother. He turns back to the bubbling pot, and opens the cabinets above his head to grab a mug. Setting it down on the counter with a distinct, clink, he drops the little white bag inside and starts pouring. The handle of the pot is hot, burning into his hand. Some water splashes over the rim of the mug, and Stiles finds himself squealing, pulling his hand away instinctively, and dropping the pot onto the kitchen tile.

Erica is over in a second, hands over his, asking if he’s okay. He see’s the black lines run up her arms and pulls away in an instant, turning to his mug. She looks at him as if he’s insane, bouncing on her feet. Whatever water left in the pot spilled on the floor, burning her toes and his, “If I feel no pain, I won’t heal. It takes a hell of alot longer, if anything.”

When he’s become nearly immune to pain, he doesn’t know, but he sure as hell abuses it. Just slightly. By dumping maybe a centimeter of hot fluid into his sink and replacing it with cold water and downing it all in one go. It burns his throat in a way his dad’s henny can never, and Erica stares at him as if he’s lost all shits. Because he has.

He looks down at his hands, which now tremble, and he slowly begins to lose his mind. Deaton warned him, that after a while, after abusing the brew, that it wouldn’t work. And he’d been aware, but this, this isn’t it. If it’d stopped working, he’d feel the same. Minor jolts, subtle trembles. But now his entire body convulses, and in the most twisted of ways, he’s glad it Erica of all people who see him like this. She knows what the worst of seizures feel like, and maybe not how to handle someone who’s basically having one, but she knows how she would’ve wanted to be treated.

Regardless of the heat searing their feet, she steps closer to him and slips her arms around him, pulling him down to the ground slowly. She rests his head against her chest and despite his wishes, she tries to drain him of his pain. He doesn’t know what kind of pain she went through when she used to have seizures. Doesn’t think he can handle knowing in this state. The initial burning pain is gone, but then there’s nothing, the lines stop abruptly and so do Erica’s ideas.

This isn’t the brew not working, this is the enchantment thrown into hyperdrive. Between shaking fits, he breathes in deeply and talks. Tells her she’s probably going to see some really weird things from him. Makes her promise to not judge. Tells her to take him to his room, and to call a pack meeting. And he’s aware; he’s definitely aware that it’s four pm, and half of the pack is still working, and the other half has shit to do.

He tells her to not let anyone but Allison, Lydia, and Scott to see him, “Eric.... Eric…”

“It’s Erica but this works.” She mumbles, hauling him over her shoulder like Scott had done, and taking him to his room.

He musters some kind of strength and asks her to set him down in his bathroom, in front of the mirror, and when she does he sits and he waits. He doesn’t let go of her hand, not until his tattoos start to shadow his reflection and his eyes turn black and white and grey. Erica doesn’t jerk away, not like he expected her to. Instead, she comes closer, draws her fingers across his flesh.

“You’re that kid? The protector of Beacon Hills, the savior?” She asks, wonder sewn into her body language.

She’s genuinely intrigued, “Shit, sorry. My mom, she was into magic and stuff. Used to tell me these bizarre prophecies as bedtime stories, and I thought it was all horse crap until I was bitten. Then it was more like, woah, creepier things can be real, but the prophecies, they _are_ real.”

He’s listening intently, but he’s also paying attention to movement. She’s the same Erica as usual. Her movements are consistent, her facial features move in the same excited and disappointed patterns, “Pack meeting.” He reminds her, and then she’s up on her feet again, grabbing his phone and dialing away at others. In less than a half hour, he’s leaning against his bathroom door, with Lydia and Erica besides him. Everyone else is on the other side, antsy and full of interruptions as he tries to the best of his abilities to talk.

His eyes flicker left, right, up and down uncontrollably, but he can see enough of everyone to pick up just how curious and worried they are. Jackson is pacing back and forth, in and out of his room like he’s expecting someone to come and attack; It’s happened. Scott and Allison sit on his bed, a little more knowing than the rest, and little more terrified. Cora is standing next to Derek, staring intently at the bathroom door. Danny and Boyd, they look intrigued, for once. No one is missing but Isaac, and when he bursts into his bedroom, patting Jackson along the way, he carries bags of fast food. Stiles waits for it to get distributed, waits for Isaac to settle down on the floor by Allison’s legs that hang off his bed.

Luckily, everyone eats quietly, and the bag in front of the bathroom door sits untouched. “I’m sorry this was so sudden.”

His legs start to wobble again, so Erica sits on him, pins him down with her hand pushing his shoulders into the door. Lydia is mixing ingredients, the ones he wrote down before everyone else had begun to show up. when she’s done and it’s in a liquid form, she pulls it all into a needle and injects it directly into his neck. The result is instant, his body goes slack and he can focus. Erica climbs off him, and he nods at the both of them in appreciation. From there, as quietly as he possibly can, he mutters the reinforcement spell that he’d rehearsed with Allison.

No one is paying that much attention to be able to hear him, he hopes. And with the liberation of mind and body, he can face the pack, face his family. Lydia and Erica emerge behind him, and everyone who can, begins smelling at the air, trying to pin just exactly what Lydia was doing. It’s smells like one of her perfumes honestly.

His voice is much more stable, thicker and louder, “I just have some bad news. Bad news than involve me and really attractive mermaids, and only Derek knew. I’m sorry that I kept this from you guys. But yes, there are sirens in Beacon Hills, and by luck, I got serenaded.”

Cora looks outraged, anger creased deeply into her forehead, “And you didn’t think to tell us?”

Funny, Lydia had asked the same.

He shuts his eyes and swallows spit, “I didn’t expect I’d need to.”

“Yeah and why’s that smart guy?” She asks, takes a step closer with her fist raised. He doesn’t even flinch, just hooks his hands together behind his back and waits for Derek to pull his sister back. Which he does, and he doesn’t blame them for getting aggravated a his extremely mellow state. It’s kinda pissing him off too.

“I expected Deaton would’ve found a cure already. I just need to stay away from the preserve, from the lake past the final clearing, about a mile away from the old Hale house. I drink tea to keep my shits together or I have muscle spasms worse than the seizure Erica here had in the seventh grade. Except, this evening, it was sabotaged. By who, I don’t know, but instead of calming my nerves, it sent them into hyperdrive. So if anyone sees me head in the direction of the preserve, at any time, stop me. Stop me at all costs until we figure out how to stop these sirens without me a: becoming one, or b: permanently binding me to them in the afterlife.”

He doesn’t know where the conviction in his voices comes from, but it’s reassuring to him and everyone else.

They talk about it afterwards, all what can be done, what to research, what to look for. But there isn’t much Stiles knows about it, honestly. He’d been so dependent on Deaton finding a solution that he hadn’t thought of finding one on his own. The most he had on how to break enchantment was the witch’s journal.

He goes to grab it from his desk, above his two old high school textbooks, but it’s not there. No one is watching him anywhere, too busy talking and gathering their things to leave. He rushes over to his bookshelf, where he rarely keeps books he reads a lot, and looks for it on the top right corner where it belongs, but nothing.

Isaac, Jackson, and Danny are gone, and it gives him room to panic. Derek is watching him, as he rummages through drawers and searches underneath his bed for the book. When he looks up, the Hale’s are gone, but something far more important catches his eyes. In the cranny between his nightstand and bed, where he had a protection ward, the same he now has on his face, there’s a red slash carved through the middle of it.

He sits up and hides the scared look on his face until Boyd is gone too, leaving only the people who know of his secret. He rushes downstairs and locks the door and closes all the windows of the house, then heads back to his room and shuts the door.

Then he drops to the floor and with the magic he’d used to carve all the protection wards throughout Beacon Hills, he senses them out. Some are burned out, others carved away, and the buzz of magic seeps away. The last one, most recent one he’d made was on the wall of the bakery next to Allison’s library, and the magic of that one began to dissipate too.

The town is no longer protected from bad energy.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Make sure to leave lots of love <3 And contact me on
> 
> [ tumblr](http://sterekhalinsk.tumblr.com/)
> 
> for anything <3


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